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OUR FAMILIAR SONGS. |
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How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't; Meg grew sick as he grew hale,
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings ; And, oh ! her een, they spak' sic things,
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. |
Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't; Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. Duncan couldna be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; Now they're crouse and canty baith, —
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. |
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