XX.
Reading edition
HER FLOWING LOCKS.
Tune—(unknown.)
[One day—it is tradition that speaks—Burns had his foot in the stirrup to return from Ayr to Mauchline, when a young lady of great beauty rode up to the inn, and ordered refreshments for her servants; he made these lines at the moment, to keep, he said, so much beauty in his memory.]
Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling, And round that neck entwine her! Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew, O, what a feast her bonnie mou’! Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner.