Robert Burns, 1789
Thou ling'ring star, with lessening ray,|
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
2. That sacred hour can I forget,
3. Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,|
O'erhung with wild-woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,
'Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene:
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray;
Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
4. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
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