John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my...
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Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; |
O, My Luve ’s like a red, red rose As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, |
Of a’ the airts 1 the wind can blaw, |
O, Saw ye bonnie Leslie To see her is to love her, |
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around |
[Written in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.] THOU lingering star, with lessening ray, |
“My son, these maxims make a rule |
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, |
On Turning One Down with the Plough in April, 1786 WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd flower, |