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　　On Chloris

　　Requesting me to give her a Spring of Blossomed Thorn.

　　From the white-blossom'd sloe my dear Chloris requested

　　A sprig, her fair breast to adorn:

　　No, by Heavens! I exclaim'd, let me perish, if ever

　　I plant in that bosom a thorn! Poems and Songs of Robert Burns