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Robert Burns

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The fear o' hell 's a hangman's whip
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border.
--
Stanza 8

 
Robert Burns

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The wretched desert takes its form, the jackal proud and tight.
In search of you, I feel my way, through the slowest heaving night.
Whatever fear invents, I swear it makes no sense.
I reach through the border fence.
Come down, come talk to me.

 
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