Poem by Robert Burns

Fragment «Now health forsakes that angel face…»

Now health forsakes that angel face,
  	Nae mair my Dearie smiles;
Pale sickness withers ilka grace,
  	And a’ my hopes beguiles.
The cruel powers reject the prayer
  	I hourly mak’ for thee;
Ye heavens, how great is my despair,
  	How can I see him dee!

1. No Churchman am I
2. O Guid Ale Comes
3. Auld Rob Morris
4. My Bottle
5. Epitaph on John Bushby, Writer, Dumfries

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