Appie M'Gie

O Love has done muckle in city an' glen,
In tears of the women, an' vows of the men ;
But the sweet little rogue, wi' his visions o' bliss,
Has never done aught sae unhallow'd as this.
For what do ye think ? — at a dance on the green,
Afore the dew fell through the gloamin' yestreen,
He has woundit the bosom, an' blindit the ee,
Of the flower o' our valley, young Appie M'Gie.

Young Appie was sweet as the zephyr of even,
And blithe as the laverock that carols in heaven ;
As bonny as ever was bud o' the thorn,
Or rose that unfolds to the breath o' the morn.
Her form was the fairest o' Nature's design,
And her soul was as pure as her face was divine.
Ah, Love ! 'tis a shame that a model so true,
By thee should be melted and moulded anew.

The little pale flow'rets blush deep for thy blame ;
The fringe o' the daisy is purple wi' shame ;
The heath-breeze, that kisses the cheeks o' the free,
Has a tint of the mellow soft-breathings of thee.

Of all the wild wasters of glee and of hue,
And eyes that have depths o' the ocean of blue,
Love, thou art the chief ! And a shame upon thee,
For this deed thou hast done to young Appie M'Gie.