Antistrophe

Plunderer of Armies! lift thine eyes,

(A while forbear, ye torturing fiends;)

Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends?

No fallen angel, hurl’d from upper skies;

’Tis thy trusty quondam Mate,

Doom’d to share thy fiery fate;

She, tardy, hell-ward plies.

Poems and Songs of Robert Burns · 第 305 / 618 题