470. Song—She says she loes me best of a’ by Robert Burns
SAE flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o’er-arching Twa laughing e’en o’ lovely blue; Her smiling, sae wyling. Wad make a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure, Unto these rosy lips to grow! Such was my Chloris’ bonie face, When first that bonie face I saw; And aye my Chloris’ dearest charm— She says, she lo’es me best of a’.
Like harmony her motion, Her pretty ankle is a spy, Betraying fair proportion, Wad make a saint forget the sky: Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and gracefu’ air; Ilk feature—auld Nature Declar’d that she could do nae mair: Hers are the willing chains o’ love, By conquering Beauty’s sovereign law; And still my Chloris’ dearest charm— She says, she lo’es me best of a’.
Let others love the city, And gaudy show, at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley, The dewy eve and rising moon, Fair beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling; recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang; There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove, By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o’ truth and love, And say, thou lo’es me best of a’.