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Lass Of Cessnock Banks, The Analysis



Author: Poetry of Robert Burns Type: Poetry Views: 133

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A Song of Similes



Tune - "If he be a Butcher neat and trim."



On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;

Could I describe her shape and mein;

Our lasses a' she far excels,

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



She's sweeter than the morning dawn,

When rising Phoebus first is seen,

And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



She's stately like yon youthful ash,

That grows the cowslip braes between,

And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn,

With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,

When purest in the dewy morn;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



Her looks are like the vernal May,

When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene,

While birds rejoice on every spray;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



Her hair is like the curling mist,

That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,

When flow'r-reviving rains are past;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,

When gleaming sunbeams intervene

And gild the distant mountain's brow;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,

The pride of all the flowery scene,

Just opening on its thorny stem;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



Her bosom's like the nightly snow,

When pale the morning rises keen,

While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,

That sunny walls from Boreas screen;

They tempt the taste and charm the sight;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,

With fleeces newly washen clean,

That slowly mount the rising steep;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,

That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush,

That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,

While his mate sits nestling in the bush;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.



But it's not her air, her form, her face,

Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen;

'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,

An' chiefly in her roguish een.






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