Robert Burns, 1792
I Do confess thou art sae fair,|
I was been o'er the lugs in luve,
Had I na found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak thy heart could muve.
2. I do confess thee sweet, but find
3. See yonder rosebud, rich in dew,|
Amang its native briers sae coy;
How sune it tines its scent and hue,
When pu'd and worn a common toy.
4. Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,
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