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415. Song—The last time I cam o'er the Moor

 THE LAST time I came o’er the moor,
 And left Maria’s dwelling,
What throes, what tortures passing cure,
 Were in my bosom swelling:
Condemn’d to see my rival’s reign,
 While I in secret languish;
To feel a fire in every vein,
 Yet dare not speak my anguish.
Love’s veriest wretch, despairing, I Fain, fain, my crime would cover; Th’ unweeting groan, the bursting sigh, Betray the guilty lover.
I know my doom must be despair, Thou wilt nor canst relieve me; But oh, Maria, hear my prayer, For Pity’s sake forgive me! The music of thy tongue I heard, Nor wist while it enslav’d me; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear’d, Till fear no more had sav’d me: The unwary sailor thus, aghast, The wheeling torrent viewing, ’Mid circling horrors yields at last To overwhelming ruin.

Poem by Robert Burns
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