The Primrose


Dost ask me, why I send thee here, This firstling of the infant year? Dost ask me, what this primrose shews, Bepearled thus with morning dews? I must whisper to thy ears, The sweets of love are wash'd with tears. This lovely native of the dale Thou seest, how languid, pensive, pale: Thou seest this bending stalk so weak, That each way yielding doth not break? I must tell thee, these reveal, The doubts and fears that lovers feel.

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Joyce Falconer

About this work

This is a song by Robert Burns. It was written in 1793 and is read here by Joyce Falconer.

Themes for this song

love nature

Selected for 12 May

A tiny wee bit too 'poetic'? Yes, indeed. But simple, tender, touching; flowers often brought out the best in Burns...

Donny O'Rourke

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