Robert Burns (Роберт Бернс)

Phillis the Fair

WHILE larks with little wing
  Fann’d the pure air,
Tasting the breathing spring,
  Forth I did fare:
Gay the sun’s golden eye
Peep’d o’er the mountains high;
Such thy morn! did I cry,
  Phillis the fair.

In each bird’s careless song
  Glad did I share;
While you wild flowers among,
  Chance led me there:
Sweet to the opening day,
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;
Such thy bloom! did I say,
  Phillis the fair.

Down in a shady walk,
  Doves cooing were,
I mark’d the cruel hawk
  Caught in a snare:
So kind may Fortune be,
Such make his destiny,
He who would injure thee,
  Phillis the fair.

1. Sleep’st Thou, or Wak’st Thou
2. Lines Written under the Picture of Miss Burns
3. Their Groves O’ sweet Myrtle
4. Castle Gordon
5. Gala Water

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