Robert Burns, 1795
Forlorn, my Love, no comfort near,|
Far, far from thee, I wander here;
Far, far from thee, the fate severe,
At which I most repine, Love.
O wert thou, Love, but near me!
But near, near, near me,
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, Love.
2. Around me scowls a wintry sky,
3. Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part,|
To poison Fortune's ruthless dart-
Let me not break thy faithful heart,
And say that fate is mine, Love.
4. But, dreary tho' the moments fleet,
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