There is a spot I dearly loâ€™ed,
Â Â When I was summers nine or ten,
Where slender blue-bells wavâ€™d and wooâ€™d
Â Â Young barefoot wanderers to that glen.
So shy the wagtail bobbâ€™d and bowâ€™dâ€”
Â Â A mystery was the little wrenâ€”
And purple berries there were puâ€™d
Â Â By laughinâ€™ bands in Lightburn Glen.
When gloamin breathâ€™d upon thy stream,
Â Â And hushâ€™d the song of roaming bee,
Ere yet the moon had lent her beam
Â Â To make thee lovelier, if might be;
Then still the lark proclaimed thy praise,
Â Â And challengâ€™d in his song divine
Those glorious two,* whose mellow lays
Â Â Charmâ€™d the dark woods of Carntyne.
Another beauty met my gaze
Â Â In riper years, with all to joinâ€”
That lark might neâ€™er attempt to praise,
Â Â Nor all the choir of Carntyne.
If ye haâ€™e wooâ€™d and haeâ€™na won,
Â Â By dewy loan or leafy den;
Thereâ€™s no a place below the sun
Â Â Iâ€™d sooner try than Lightburn Glen.