Phillis the Fair

Robert Burns (1759–1796)

While larks with little wingFann'd the pure air,Tasting the breathing spring,Forth I did fare:Gay the sun's golden eyePeep'd o'er the mountains high;Such thy morn! did I cry,Phillis the fair.

In each bird's careless songGlad did I share;While yon wild flowers among,Chance led me there:Sweet to the opening day,Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;Such thy bloom! did I say,Phillis the fair.

Down in a shady walk,Doves cooing were,I mark'd the cruel hawkCaught in a snare:So kind may Fortune be,Such make his destiny,He who would injure thee,Phillis the fair.