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Fragment

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 bonie mou'!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner.

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The works of Robert Burns

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