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And now Yonge Andrew he is dead, But he never was buryed under molde;
And there as the wolfe devoured him There lyes all this great Earle's gold.
The Gay Goshawk
'O WELL 's me o' my gay goss-hawk, That he can speak and flee ! He'll carry a letter to my love, Bring back another to me.'—
ii ' O how can I your true-love ken,
Or how can I her know ? Whan frae her mouth I never heard couth,
Nor wi' my eyes her saw.'—
in ' O well sail ye my true-love ken,
As soon as you her see; For, of a' the flow'rs in fair England,
The fairest flow'r is she.
' At even at my love's bower-door
There grows a bowing birk, An' sit ye down and sing thereon,
As she gangs to the kirk.