Classic Poem

Auld carlins ride on their brooms astride
Awa' thro' the midnight air,
But they cast nae spell on a man sae fell
As the Witch o' the Golden Hair.

Nae a fairy free 'neath the hazel tree
That dances upon the green
Ever kent a charm that could heal or harm
Like the glint o' her twa blue een.

Fae the earth she 's reived, fae the Heav'n she 's thieved,
For her cauldron 's deadly brew;
She laughs at the stounds o' the hearts she wounds,
For what recks the Witch o' rue?

Lang, lang may the vine in its envy twine
To compass a bower sae rare,
As will peer, I trow, wi' her broad low brow
An' her wavin' golden hair.

The bloom fae the peach that we ne'er could reach,
The red that the apple missed,
You 'll find if you seek on the Witch's cheek,
Left there when the summer kissed.

The blue drappit doon fae the lift aboon
To shine in her dancin' een:
An' the honey-bee sips fae her red, red lips,
Syne brags o' the sweets between.

Wi' a magic wile she has won the smile
That the mornin' used to wear,
An' the gold the sun in his splendour spun
Lies tangled amang her hair.

The saft south wind cam' to her to find
A haven to sink an' die,
An' the breath o' myrrh it bequeathed to her
You 'll find in the Witch's sigh.

The dimples three that you still can see
Are a' she can claim her ain,
For in Nature fair naught can compare
With them; they are hers alane.