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424. Song—Phillis the Fair

 WHILE larks, with little wing,
 Fann’d the pure air,
Tasting the breathing Spring,
 Forth I did fare:
Gay the sun’s golden eye
Peep’d o’er the mountains high;
Such thy morn! did I cry,
 Phillis the fair.
In each bird’s careless song, Glad I did share; While yon wild-flowers among, Chance led me there! Sweet to the op’ning day, Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; Such thy bloom! did I say, Phillis the fair.
Down in a shady walk, Doves cooing were; I mark’d the cruel hawk Caught in a snare: So kind may fortune be, Such make his destiny, He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair.

Poem by Robert Burns
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