 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
SAE FLAXEN WERE HER RINGLETS
I
Sae flaxen were her ringlets,Her eyebrows of a darker hue,
Bewitchingly o'er-arching
Twa laughing een o' bonie blue.
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Wad make a wretch forget his woe!
What pleasure, what treasure,
Unto those rosy lips to grow!
Such was my Chloris' bonie face,
When first that bonie face I saw,
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm—
She says she lo'es me best of a'!
II
Like harmony her motion,Her pretty ankle is a spy
Betraying fair proportion
Wad make a saint forget the sky!
Sae warming, sae charming,
Her faultless form and gracefu' air,
Ilk feature—auld Nature
Declar'd that she could dae nae mair!
Hers are the willing chains o' love
By conquering beauty's sovereign law,
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm—
She says she lo'es me best of a'.
III
Let others love the city,And gaudy show at sunny noon!
Gie me the lonely valley,
The dewy eve, and rising moon,
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Her silver light the boughs amang,
While falling, recalling,
The amorous thrush concludes his sang!
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove
By wimpling burn and leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o' truth and love,
And say thou lo'es me best of a'?
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |