Robert Burns

On Chloris Being Ill

  LONG, long the night,
    Heavy comes the morrow,
  While my soul’s delight
    Is on her bed of sorrow.

Can I cease to care,
  Can I cease to languish,
While my darling fair
  Is on the couch of anguish?

Every hope is fled,
  Every fear is terror;
Slumber e’en I dread,
  Every dream is horror.

Hear me, Pow’rs divine!
  Oh, in pity hear me!
Take aught else of mine,
  But my Chloris spare me!