The Lass Of Cessnock Banks

Lass Of Cessnock Banks, The^1

     [Footnote 1: The lass is identified as Ellison Begbie, a servant
      wench, daughter of a  "Farmer Lang".]



     A Song of Similes
     Tune--"If he be a Butcher neat and trim."

     On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;
     Could I describe her shape and mein;
     Our lasses a' she far excels,
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     She's sweeter than the morning dawn,
     When rising Phoebus first is seen,
     And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     She's stately like yon youthful ash,
     That grows the cowslip braes between,
     And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn,
     With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,
     When purest in the dewy morn;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     Her looks are like the vernal May,
     When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene,
     While birds rejoice on every spray;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     Her hair is like the curling mist,
     That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,
     When flow'r-reviving rains are past;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,
     When gleaming sunbeams intervene
     And gild the distant mountain's brow;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
     The pride of all the flowery scene,
     Just opening on its thorny stem;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     Her bosom's like the nightly snow,
     When pale the morning rises keen,
     While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
     That sunny walls from Boreas screen;
     They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
     With fleeces newly washen clean,
     That slowly mount the rising steep;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
     That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
     When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush,
     That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
     While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
     An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
     But it's not her air, her form, her face,
     Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen;
     'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,
     An' chiefly in her roguish een.