Robert Burns

Could Aught of Song

COULD aught of song declare my pains,
  Could artful numbers move thee,
The Muse should tell, in labour’d strains,
  O Mary, how I love thee!

They who but feign a wounded heart
  May teach the lyre to languish;
But what avails the pride of art,
  When wastes the soul with anguish?

Then let the sudden bursting sigh
  The heart-felt pang discover;
And in the keen, yet tender eye,
  O read th’ imploring lover!

For well I know thy gentle mind
  Disdains art’s gay disguising;
Beyond what fancy e’er refin’d,
  The voice of nature prizing.