Classic Poem

On Carron's side the primrose pale,
Why does it wear a purple hue?
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,
Why stream your eyes with Pity's dew?

'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood
That purple grows the primrose pale;
That Pity pours the tender flood
From each fair eye in Marlivale.

The evening star sate in his eye,
The sun his golden tresses gave,
The north's pure morn her orient dye,
To him who rests in yonder grave!

Beneath no high, historic stone,
Though nobly born, is Owen laid,
Stretch'd on the green wood's lap alone,
He sleeps beneath the waving shade.

There many a flowery race hath sprung,
And fled before the mountain gale,
Since first his simple dirge ye sung;
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale!

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet
Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold,
That dirge I hear so simply sweet
Far echoed from each evening fold.