HER flowing locks, the raven's wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her!
Her lips are roses wat wi' dew,
O' what a feast her bonie mou'!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner!
More verses by Robert Burns
- The Wounded Hare
- Song—fragment—johnie Lad, Cock Up Your Beaver
- Epigram—the True Loyal Natives
- Poem On Sensibility
- Ballad On Mr. Heron's Election—no. 4