We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
While the silent moon shines clearly;
I’ll clasp thy waist, and fondly prest,
Swear how I lo’e thee dearly;
Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be, as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely Charmer!
Reblogged this on Leonard Durso and commented:
Once again, on Robert Burns’ birthday.
Nicely written!
I’m happy you think so, Robert.