Robert Burns, 1787
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,|
The frost of hermit Age might warm;
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
2. I love my Peggy's angel air,
3. The lily's hue, the rose's dye,|
The kindling lustre of an eye;
Who but owns their magic sway!
Who but knows they all decay!
4. The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
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