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A SANG O' THE SPRING.

COME awa', my fair love,

An' snuff the cauler air;

The sang o' th' turtle dove

Crunes saftly that nae mair

Do cauld an' wat invite

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Us till the ingle-side;

Nor winter's plaid o' white

Spread out its faulds sae wide.

The primrose pavit th' mead,

The gowans teet on th' lea;

The burnie's arms are freed,

He loupit wi' liquid glee.

Sweet sangs hang on saft lips,

And float the land aboon;

The bee frae orchards sips

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