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" I was her father's cup-bearer, Just at that fatal time ; I catch'd her on a misty night,
Whan summer was in prime. eo
" My luve to her was most sincere, Her luve was great for me; But when she hardships doth endure, Her folly she does see."
" I'll shoot the buntin' o' the bush, re
The linnet o' the tree, And bring them to my dear mither, See if she'll merrier be."
It fell upo' another day,
This guid lord he thought lang, n
And he is to the hunting gane,
Took wi' him his dog and gun.
Wi' bow and arrow by his side,
He's aff, single, alane ; And left his seven children to stay 7*
Wi' their mither at hame.
" 0, I will tell to you, mither,
Gin ye wadna angry be:" " Speak on, speak on, my little wee boy,
Ye'se nae be quarrell'd by me." m