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ILD Rose of Alloway! my thanks;
 * Thou ’mindst me of that autumn noon

When first we met upon “the banks
 * And braes o’ bonny Doon.”

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree’s bough,
 * My sunny hour was glad and brief,

We’ve crossed the winter sea, and thou
 * Art withered—flower and leaf.

And will not thy death-doom be mine—
 * The doom of all things wrought of clay—

And withered my life’s leaf like thine,
 * Wild rose of Alloway?

Not so his memory, for his sake
 * My bosom bore thee far and long,

His—who a humbler flower could make
 * Immortal as his song,