| |
| OF streams that down the valley run, | |
| Or through the meadow glide, | |
| Or glitter to the summer sun, | |
| The Stinshar is the pride. | |
| ’T is not his banks of verdant hue, | 5 |
| Though famed they be afar; | |
| Nor grassy hill, nor mountain blue, | |
| Nor flower bedropt with diamond dew; | |
| ’T is she that chiefly charms the view, | |
| The bonnie lass of Barr. | 10 |
| |
| When rose the lark on early wing, | |
| The vernal tide to hail; | |
| When daisies decked the breast of spring, | |
| I sought her native vale. | |
| The beam that gilds the evening sky, | 15 |
| And brighter morning star | |
| That tells the king of day is nigh, | |
| With mimic splendor vainly try | |
| To reach the lustre of thine eye, | |
| Thou bonnie lass of Barr. | 20 |
| |
| The sun behind yon misty isle | |
| Did sweetly set yestreen, | |
| But not his parting dewy smile | |
| Could match the smile of Jean. | |
| Her bosom swelled with gentle woe, | 25 |
| Mine strove with tender war. | |
| On Stinshar’s banks, while wildwoods grow, | |
| While rivers to the ocean flow, | |
| With love of thee my heart shall glow, | |
| Thou bonnie lass of Barr. | 30 |
| |
