Robert Burns

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise,

My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream,

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen,

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills!