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A SANG O' THE SPRING.

The life he 'll drap sae soon.

An' now the thorn pats on

Her robe o' white an' green,

An' glint the rigs o' corn

Tender as maidens' een.

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Then come, my ain fair love,

An' snuff the cauler air;

Fair is the lift above,

But shaw thy face mae fair.

Come list the winter greet

To scent the grape's good smell,

An' daunce wi' flyin' feet

Roun's grave in yonder dell.

Laugh at the wind's sair mane,

As Spring gies her sweet smile,

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