XX.

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.

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