Robert Burns

* * *

THINE am I, my faithful fair,
  Thine, my lovely Nancy;
Every pulse along my veins,
  Every roving fancy.

To thy bosom lay my heart,
  There, to throb and languish:
Tho’ despair had wrung its core,
  That would heal its anguish.

Take away these rosy lips,
  Rich with balmy treasure!
Turn away thine eyes of love,
  Lest I die with pleasure!

What is life when wanting love?
  Night without a morning!
Love’s the cloudless summer sun,
  Nature gay adorning.