10 Best Famous Mavis Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Mavis poems. This is a select list of the best famous Mavis poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Mavis poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of mavis poems.

• All Famous Mavis Poems

 Let poets piece prismatic words,
Give me the jewelled joy of birds!

What ecstasy moves them to sing?
Is it the lyric glee of Spring,
The dewy rapture of the rose?
Is it the worship born in those
Who are of Nature's self a part,
The adoration of the heart?

Is it the mating mood in them
That makes each crystal note a gem?
Oh mocking bird and nightingale,
Oh mavis, lark and robin - hail!
Tell me what perfect passion glows
In your inspired arpeggios?

A thrush is thrilling as I write
Its obligato of delight;
And in its fervour, as in mine,
I fathom tenderness divine,
And pity those of earthy ear
Who cannot hear . . . who cannot hear.

Let poets pattern pretty words:
For lovely largesse - bless you, Birds!

 Where Claribel low-lieth
The breezes pause and die,
Letting the rose-leaves fall:
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth,
Thick-leaved, ambrosial,
With an ancient melody
Of an inward agony,
Where Claribel low-lieth.

At eve the beetle boometh
Athwart the thicket lone:
At noon the wild bee hummeth
About the moss'd headstone:
At midnight the moon cometh,
And looketh down alone.
Her song the lintwhite swelleth,
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth,
The callow throstle lispeth,
The slumbrous wave outwelleth,
The babbling runnel crispeth,
The hollow grot replieth
Where Claribel low-lieth.

 In Ionia whence sprang old poets' fame,
From whom that sea did first derive her name,
The blessed bed whereon the Muses lay,
Beauty of Greece, the pride of Asia,
Whence Archelaus, whom times historify,
First unto Athens brought philosophy:
In this fair region on a goodly plain,
Stretching her bounds unto the bord'ring main,
The mountain Latmus overlooks the sea,
Smiling to see the ocean billows play:
Latmus, where young Endymion used to keep
His fairest flock of silver-fleeced sheep,
To whom Silvanus often would resort,
At barley-brake to see the Satyrs sport;
And when rude Pan his tabret list to sound,
To see the fair Nymphs foot it in a round,
Under the trees which on this mountain grew,
As yet the like Arabia never knew;
For all the pleasures Nature could devise
Within this plot she did imparadise;
And great Diana of her special grace
With vestal rites had hallowed all the place.
Upon this mount there stood a stately grove,
Whose reaching arms to clip the welkin strove,
Of tufted cedars, and the branching pine,
Whose bushy tops themselves do so entwine,
As seem'd, when Nature first this work begun,
She then conspir'd against the piercing sun;
Under whose covert (thus divinely made)
Ph{oe}bus' green laurel flourish'd in the shade,
Fair Venus' myrtle, Mars his warlike fir,
Minerva's olive, and the weeping myrrh,
The patient palm, which thrives in spite of hate,
The poplar, to Alcides consecrate;
Which Nature in such order had disposed,
And therewithal these goodly walks inclosed,
As serv'd for hangings and rich tapestry,
To beautify this stately gallery.
Embroidering these in curious trails along,
The cluster'd grapes, the golden citrons hung,
More glorious than the precious fruit were these,
Kept by the dragon in Hesperides,
Or gorgeous arras in rich colours wrought,
With silk from Afric, or from Indy brought.
Out of this soil sweet bubbling fountains crept,
As though for joy the senseless stones had wept,
With straying channels dancing sundry ways,
With often turns, like to a curious maze;
Which breaking forth the tender grass bedewed,
Whose silver sand with orient pearl was strewed,
Shadowed with roses and sweet eglantine,
Dipping their sprays into this crystalline;
From which the birds the purple berries pruned,
And to their loves their small recorders tuned,
The nightingale, wood's herald of the spring,
The whistling woosel, mavis carolling,
Tuning their trebles to the waters' fall,
Which made the music more angelical;
Whilst gentle Zephyr murmuring among
Kept time, and bare the burthen to the song:
About whose brims, refresh'd with dainty showers,
Grew amaranthus, and sweet gilliflowers,
The marigold, Ph{oe}bus' beloved friend,
The moly, which from sorcery doth defend,
Violet, carnation, balm, and cassia,
Idea's primrose, coronet of may.
Above this grove a gentle fair ascent,
Which by degrees of milk-white marble went:
Upon the top, a paradise was found,
With which Nature this miracle had crown'd,
Empal'd with rocks of rarest precious stone,
Which like the flames of ?tna brightly shone,
And served as lanthorns furnished with light,
To guide the wand'ring passengers by night:
For which fair Ph{oe}be, sliding from her sphere,
Used oft times to come and sport her there,
And from the azure starry-painted sky
Embalm'd the banks with precious lunary:
That now her Maenalus she quite forsook,
And unto Latmus wholly her betook,
And in this place her pleasure us'd to take,
And all was for her sweet Endymion's sake;
Endymion, the lovely shepherds' boy,
Endymion, great Ph{oe}be's only joy,
Endymion, in whose pure-shining eyes
The naked fairies danced the heydegies.
The shag-hair'd Satyrs' mountain-climbing race
Have been made tame by gazing in his face.
For this boy's love, the water-nymphs have wept,
Stealing oft times to kiss him whilst he slept,
And tasting once the nectar of his breath,
Surfeit with sweet, and languish unto death;
And Jove oft-times bent to lascivious sport,
And coming where Endymion did resort,
Hath courted him, inflamed with desire,
Thinking some nymph was cloth'd in boy's attire.
And often-times the simple rural swains,
Beholding him in crossing o'er the plains,
Imagined, Apollo from above
Put on this shape, to win some maiden's love.

 AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees
 Her robe assume its vernal hues:
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
 All freshly steep’d in morning dews.


 Chorus.—And maun I still on Menie doat,
 And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e?
 For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,
 An’ it winna let a body be.


In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
 In vain to me the vi’lets spring;
In vain to me in glen or shaw,
 The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
 And maun I still, &c.


The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to me’s a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
 And maun I still, &c.


The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And ev’ry thing is blest but I.
 And maun I still, &c.


The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And o’er the moorlands whistles shill:
Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
 And maun I still, &c.


And when the lark, ’tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
 And maun I still, &c.


Come winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging, bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!
 And maun I still, &c.

 ’TWAS even—the dewy fields were green,
 On every blade the pearls hang;
The zephyr wanton’d round the bean,
 And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
 In ev’ry glen the mavis sang,
All nature list’ning seem’d the while,
 Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle.


With careless step I onward stray’d,
 My heart rejoic’d in nature’s joy,
When, musing in a lonely glade,
 A maiden fair I chanc’d to spy:
 Her look was like the morning’s eye,
Her air like nature’s vernal smile:
 Perfection whisper’d, passing by,
“Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle!”“


Fair is the morn in flowery May,
 And sweet is night in autumn mild;
When roving thro’ the garden gay,
 Or wand’ring in the lonely wild:
 But woman, nature’s darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
 Even there her other works are foil’d
By the bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle.


O, had she been a country maid,
 And I the happy country swain,
Tho’ shelter’d in the lowest shed
 That ever rose on Scotland’s plain!
 Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
 And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle.


Then pride might climb the slipp’ry steep,
 Where frame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
 Or downward seek the Indian mine:
 Give me the cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks or till the soil;
 And ev’ry day have joys divine
With the bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

 Old Elm that murmured in our chimney top
The sweetest anthem autumn ever made
And into mellow whispering calms would drop
When showers fell on thy many coloured shade
And when dark tempests mimic thunder made
While darkness came as it would strangle light
With the black tempest of a winter night
That rocked thee like a cradle to thy root
How did I love to hear the winds upbraid
Thy strength without while all within was mute
It seasoned comfort to our hearts desire
We felt thy kind protection like a friend
And pitched our chairs up closer to the fire
Enjoying comforts that was was never penned

Old favourite tree thoust seen times changes lower
But change till now did never come to thee
For time beheld thee as his sacred dower
And nature claimed thee her domestic tree
Storms came and shook thee with aliving power
Yet stedfast to thy home thy roots hath been
Summers of thirst parched round thy homely bower
Till earth grew iron—still thy leaves was green
The children sought thee in thy summer shade
And made their play house rings of sticks and stone
The mavis sang and felt himself alone
While in they leaves his early nest was made
And I did feel his happiness mine own
Nought heeding that our friendship was betrayed

Friend not inanimate—tho stocks and stones
There are and many cloathed in flesh and bones
Thou ownd a lnaguage by which hearts are stirred
Deeper than by the attribute of words
Thine spoke a feeling known in every tongue
Language of pity and the force of wrong
What cant assumes what hypocrites may dare
Speaks home to truth and shows it what they are

I see a picture that thy fate displays
And learn a lesson from thy destiny
Self interest saw thee stand in freedoms ways
So thy old shadow must a tyrant be
Thoust heard the knave abusing those in power
Bawl freedom loud and then oppress the free
Thoust sheltered hypocrites in many an hour
That when in power would never shelter thee
Thoust heard the knave supply his canting powers
With wrongs illusions when he wanted friends
That bawled for shelter when he lived in showers
And when clouds vanished made thy shade ammends
With axe at root he felled thee to the ground
And barked of freedom—O I hate that sound

It grows the cant terms of enslaving tools
To wrong another by the name of right
It grows a liscence with oer bearing fools
To cheat plain honesty by force of might
Thus came enclosure—ruin was her guide
But freedoms clapping hands enjoyed the sight
Tho comforts cottage soon was thrust aside
And workhouse prisons raised upon the scite
Een natures dwelling far away from men
The common heath became the spoilers prey
The rabbit had not where to make his den
And labours only cow was drove away
No matter—wrong was right and right was wrong
And freedoms brawl was sanction to the song

Such was thy ruin music making Elm
The rights of freedom was to injure thine
As thou wert served so would they overwhelm
In freedoms name the little so would they over whelm
And these are knaves that brawl for better laws
And cant of tyranny in stronger powers
Who glut their vile unsatiated maws
And freedoms birthright from the weak devours

 THE NIGHT was still, and o’er the hill
 The moon shone on the castle wa’;
The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang
 Around her on the castle wa’;
Sae merrily they danced the ring
 Frae eenin’ till the cock did craw;
And aye the o’erword o’ the spring
 Was “Irvine’s bairns are bonie a’.”

 MY lord, I know your noble ear
 Woe ne’er assails in vain;
Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear
 Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus’ scorching beams,
 In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
 And drink my crystal tide. 1


The lightly-jumping, glowrin’ trouts,
 That thro’ my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
 They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
 I’m scorching up so shallow,
They’re left the whitening stanes amang,
 In gasping death to wallow.


Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen,
 As poet Burns came by.
That, to a bard, I should be seen
 Wi’ half my channel dry;
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
 Ev’n as I was, he shor’d me;
But had I in my glory been,
 He, kneeling, wad ador’d me.


Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks,
 In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
 Wild-roaring o’er a linn:
Enjoying each large spring and well,
 As Nature gave them me,
I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’,
 Worth gaun a mile to see.


Would then my noble master please
 To grant my highest wishes,
He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees,
 And bonie spreading bushes.
Delighted doubly then, my lord,
 You’ll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful bird
 Return you tuneful thanks.


The sober lav’rock, warbling wild,
 Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, Music’s gayest child,
 Shall sweetly join the choir;
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
 The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive Autumn cheer,
 In all her locks of yellow.


This, too, a covert shall ensure,
 To shield them from the storm;
And coward maukin sleep secure,
 Low in her grassy form:
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
 To weave his crown of flow’rs;
Or find a shelt’ring, safe retreat,
 From prone-descending show’rs.


And here, by sweet, endearing stealth,
 Shall meet the loving pair,
Despising worlds, with all their wealth,
 As empty idle care;
The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms,
 The hour of heav’n to grace;
And birks extend their fragrant arms
 To screen the dear embrace.


Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
 Some musing bard may stray,
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,
 And misty mountain grey;
Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam,
 Mild-chequering thro’ the trees,
Rave to my darkly dashing stream,
 Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.


Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
 My lowly banks o’erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
 Their shadow’s wat’ry bed:
Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest,
 My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little songster’s nest,
 The close embow’ring thorn.


So may old Scotia’s darling hope,
 Your little angel band
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
 Their honour’d native land!
So may, thro’ Albion’s farthest ken,
 To social-flowing glasses,
The grace be—“Athole’s honest men,
 And Athole’s bonie lasses!”


 Note 1. Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.—R. B. [back]

 Where Claribel low-lieth
The breezes pause and die,
Letting the rose-leaves fall:
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth,
Thick-leaved, ambrosial,
With an ancient melody
Of an inward agony,
Where Claribel low-lieth.

At eve the beetle boometh
Athwart the thicket lone:
At noon the wild bee hummeth
About the moss'd headstone:
At midnight the moon cometh,
And looketh down alone.
Her song the lintwhite swelleth,
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth,
The callow throstle lispeth,
The slumbrous wave outwelleth,
The babbling runnel crispeth,
The hollow grot replieth
Where Claribel low-lieth.

 Beautiful Balmermo on the bonnie banks of Tay,
It's a very bonnie spot in the months of June or May;
The scenery there is charming and fascinating to see,
Especially the surroundings of the old Abbey, 

Which is situated in the midst of trees on a rugged hill,
Which visitors can view at their own free will;
And the trees and shrubberies are lovely to view,
Especially the trees on each side of the avenue 

Which leads up to the Abbey amongst the trees;
And in the summer time it's frequented with bees,
And also crows with their unmusical cry,
Which is a great annoyance to the villagers that live near by. 

And there in the summer season the mavis sings,
And with her charming notes the woodland rings;
And the sweet-scented zephyrs is borne upon the gale,
Which is most refreshing and invigorating to inhale. 

Then there's the stately Castle of Balmerino
Situated in the midst of trees, a magnificent show,
And bordering on the banks o' the silvery Tay,
Where visitors can spend a happy holiday. 

As they view the castle and scenery around
It will help to cheer their spirits I'll be bound;
And if they wish to view Wormit Bay
They can walk along the braes o' the silvery Tay.