Know ye the fair one whom I love?
High is her white and holy hrow;
Her looks so saintly-sweet and pure,
Make men adore who come to wooe.
Her neck, o’er which her tresses hing,
Is snow beneath a raven’s wing.
Her lips are like the red-rose bud,
Dew-parted in a morn of June;
Her voice is gentler than the sound
Of some far-heard and heavenly tune.
Her little finger, white and round,
Can make a hundred hearts to bound.
My love’s two eyes are bonnie stars,
Born to adorn the summer skies;
And I will by our tryste-thorn sit,
To watch them at their evening rise;
That when they shine on tower and tree,
Their heavenly light may fall on me.
Come, starry eve, demure and gray,
Now is the hour when maidens wooe,
Come shake o’er wood, and bank, and brae,
Thy tresses moist with balmy dew:
Thy dew ne’er dropt on flower or tree,
So lovely or so sweet as she.
The laverock’s bosom shone with dew,
Beside us on the lilied lea,
She sung her mate down from the cloud
To warble by my love and me;
Nor from her young ones sought to move,
For well she saw our looks were love.