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WHERE BURNS WAS BORN. 59
O Doon ! aft wad he tent thy stream.
Whan roaming near thy flowery thora^
An' sweetly sing " departed joys,
" Departed, never to return !"
An' near thy bonny crystal wave.
Reft o' its rose we find the brier.
Beneath whase shade he wont to lean.
An' press the cheek o' Jeanie dear.
O'er yonder heights, in simmer tide.
His canty whistle aften rang ;
An* this the bank, an' this the brae.
That echoed back the Ploughman's sang.
But whare is now his wonted glee.
That sic enchanting pleasui*e gave ?
Ah me ! cauld lies the Poet's head ;
The wintry blast howls o'er his grave ?

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