for Robert Burns’ birthday

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!

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