THE LASS OF CESSNOCK BANKS

ON Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;

Could I describe her shape and mien; Our lasses a' she far excels,

An' she has twa sparkling rougueish 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 rogueish 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 rogueish 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 rogueish 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 rogueish een.

THE LASS OF CESSNOCK BANKS 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 rogueish 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 rogueish 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 rogueish 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 rogueish 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 rogueish 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 rogueish 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 rogueish 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 rogueish 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 rogueish een.

BONIE PEGGY ALISON

BONIE PEGGY ALISON 1

Chorus-And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

And I'll kiss thee o'er again;
And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonie Peggy Alison.

ILK care and fear, when thou art near
I ever mair defy them, O!
Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am, O!

And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, etc.

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O:
I seek nae mair o' heaven to share
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!
And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, etc.

And by thy een sae bonie blue,

I swear I'm thine forever, O!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,

And break it shall I never, O!
And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, etc.

1 Alison Begbie. His love for her as shown in his letters and in "The Lass of Cessnock Banks," "Bonie Peggy Alison," and "Mary Morison," was a sweet and reverent love.

MARY MORISON 1

O MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said among them a',
'Ye are na Mary Morison.'

1 Mary Morison is a name given to Ellison or Alison Begbie. A stone in Mauchline kirk-yard to a lady states that she was the Mary Morison to whom Burns wrote this poem. The lady at whose grave the stone stands was a young child when the poem was written.