Glen Collection of printed music > Printed music > Songs of Robert Burns

I. LOVE : PERSONAL 57
Her looks are like the vernal May,
When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene ;
While birds rejoice on every spray ;
An' she has twra sparkling, rogueish een.
Her hair is like the curling mist.
That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,
When flow^'r-reviving rains are past ;
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish eon.
Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,
When gleaming sunbeams intervene.
And gild the distant mountain's brovi,';
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flowery scene.
Just opening on its thorny stem;
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her bosom's like the nightly snow,
When pale the morning rises keen ;
While hid the murmuring streamlets flow ;
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush.
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen ;
While his mate sits nestling in the bush ;
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen ;
They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean :
That slowly mount the rising steep.
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean ;
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen ;
'Tis the mind that shines in every grace,
An' chiefly in her rogueish een.