Scotland's thistle

  The Maid of Llanwellyn

I've no sheep on the mountains
Nor boat on the lake
Nor coin in my coffer
To keep me awake
Nor corn in my garner,
Nor fruit on my tree
Yet the maid of Llanwellyn
Smiles sweetly on me.

Rich Owen will tell you,
With eyes full of scorn
Threadbare is my coat,
And my hosen are torn
Scoff on, my rich Owen,
For faint is thy glee
When the maid of Llanwellyn
Smiles sweetly on me.

The farmer rides proudly
To market and fair
And the clerk at the ale house
Still claims the great chair;
But of all our proud fellows,
The proudest I'll be
While the maid of Llanwellyn
Smiles sweetly on me.

     Song

Sweetly dawns the early day,
Rise, my love, and come away:
Leave thy grim and grated tower,
Bounding walls, and step-dame's lower;
Don thy weeds and come with me,
Light and happy are the free.

No fair mansion hails me lord,
Dainties smoke not on my board;
Yet full careless by my side
Shalt thou range the forest wide;
Though finer far the rich may be,
Light and happy are the free.

    The Outlaw's Song

The chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,
The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.
The wild-fire dances on the fen,
The red star sheds its ray;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
It is our op'ning day.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
And closed is every flower,
And winking tapers faintly peep
High from my lady's bower;
Bewilder'd hinds with shorten'd ken
Shrink on their murky way;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
It is our op'ning day.

Nor board nor garner own we now,
Nor roof nor latchèd door,
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow
To bless a good man's store;
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
And night is grown our day;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
And use it as ye may.

   Wake, Lady !

Up! quit thy bower! late wears the hour,
Long have the rooks cawed round the tower;
O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee,
And the wild kid sports merrily.
The sun is bright, the sky is clear:
Wake, lady, wake! and hasten here.
Up! maiden fair, and bind thy hair,
And rouse thee in the breezy air!
The lulling stream that soothed thy dream
Is dancing in the sunny beam.
Waste not these hours, so fresh and gay;
Leave thy soft couch, and haste away!
Up! Time will tell the morning bell
Its service-sound has chimed well;
The aged crone keeps house alone,
The reapers to the fields are gone.
Lose not these hours, so cool and gay:
Lo! while thou sleep'st they haste away!


Joanna Bailley
(1762-1852)

Scottisch Poetess


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Joanna Bailley
(in het Nederlands)

Dead Poetesses Society


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 © Gaston D'Haese: 12-02-2002.
Update: 29-05-2017.