English poem
The lass of Aben-Hall
by Eric Mackay (1831–1898)
God save the lass of Aben-Hall! She hath my bleeding heart in thrall; For one glance of her eyes so blue, Some deed of danger I would do; For one kiss of her lips so fine, I’d shed my blood like German wine!
She hath no castles by the sea, Or belted knights on bended knee; She hath no gems or jewels rare, Or any gold except her hair; But she shall be a minstrel’s bride, And tune his harp at evening-tide!
The high-born dames, in silk and fur, Shall turn their heads to look at her; The proudest maidens of them all Shall praise the lass of Aben-Hall; The king, upon his golden throne, Shall sigh to call the maid his own!
And he shall send her jewels rare, To have a ringlet of her hair; And make her Lady of the Land, To kiss her white and bonnie hand; But she shall be a minstrel’s bride, And tune his harp at evening-tide!