The Moon

Now fare-ye-weel, bonny Lady Moon,
Wi' thy still look o' majestye ;
For though ye hae a queenly face,
'Tis e'en a fearsome sight to see.
Your lip is like Ben-Lomond's base,
Your mouth a dark unmeasured dell ;
Your eebrow like the Grampian range,
Fringed with the brier an' heather-bell.

Yet still thou bear'st a human face,
Of calm an' ghostly dignity ;
Some emblem there I fain wad trace
Of Him that made baith you an' me.
But fare-ye-weel, bonny Lady Moon,
There's neither stop nor stay for me;
But when this joyfu' life is done,
I'll take a jaunt an' visit thee.