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Mary Morison
Thou 'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird

That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

And wist na o' my fate.

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Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon

To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love;

And sae did I o' mine.

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Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.

Robert Burns.

20

1792.

MARY MORISON

O Mary, at thy window be!

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour.
Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor :
How blythely wad I bide the stour,

A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison !

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Yestreen, when to the trembling string

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,

And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh’d, and said amang them a',
“Ye arena Mary Morison.”

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O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wiltna gie,

At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.
1800.

Robert Burns.

24

1793.

O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY?

O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley,

As she gaed o'er the border ?
She 's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her forever;
For nature made her what she is,

And never made anither!

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Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,

Thy subjects we, before thee;
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o' men adore thee.

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O My Luve 's Like a Red, Red Rose

The deil he could na scaith thee,

Or aught that wad belang thee;
He 'd look into thy bonnie face,

And say, "I canna wrang thee!”

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The Powers aboon will tent thee;

Misfortune sha' na steer thee;
Thou 'rt like themsel' sae lovely

That ill they 'll ne'er let near thee.

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Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we hae a lass
There 's nane again sae bonnie.

Robert Burns.

24

1798.

O MY LUVE 'S LIKE A RED, RED

ROSE

O MY Luve 's like a red, red rose

That 's newly sprung in June :
O my Luve 's like the melodie

That 's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry :

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Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my,only Luve!

And fare thee weel a while !
And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 1796.

Robert Burns.

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AE FOND KISS

AE fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell, and then for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I 'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I 'll wage thee. 4

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me,
Dark despair around benights me.

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I 'll ne'er blame my partial fancy;
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her,
Love but he and love for ever.

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Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met-or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

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Of a' the Airts

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest !
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!

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Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I 'll pledge thee,

Warring sighs and groans I 'll wage thee. 24 1792.

Robert Burns.

OF A' THE AIRTS

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And monie a hill between;
But day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

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I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air:
There 's not a bonnie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green;
There 's not a bonnie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean. 1790.

Robert Burns.

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