(Robert Burns)






* * *


  LASSIE wi the lint-white locks,
    Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
  Wilt thou wi me tent the flocks?
    Wilt thou be my dearie O?

Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,
And a is young and sweet like thee;
O wilt thou share its joys wi me,
  And say thoult be my dearie O?

The primrose bank, the wimpling burn,
The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn,
The wanton lambs at early morn
  Shall welcome thee, my dearie O.

And when the welcome simmer-shower
Has cheerd ilk drooping little flower,
Well to the breathing woodbine bower
  At sultry noon, my dearie O.

When Cynthia lights, wi silver ray,
The weary shearers hameward way,
Thro yellow waving fields well stray,
  And talk o love, my dearie O

And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassies midnight rest;
Enclasped to my faithfu breast,
  Ill comfort thee, my dearie O.




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