Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832)

THE VIOLET in her green-wood bower,

Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,

May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen or corpse or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,

Beneath the dewdrop’s weight reclining;

I’ve seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through watery lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry

Ere yet the day be past its morrow,

Nor longer in my false love’s eye

Remained the tear of parting sorrow.