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THE LASS OF LOCHROYAN
xnvn Then first he kiss'd her pale, pale cheek,
And syne he kiss'd her chin, And syne he kiss'd her wane, wane lips,
There was na breath within.
XLVIII
' O wae betide my ill mither,
An ill death may she die ! She turn'd my true-love frae my door,
Who cam so far to me.
XLIX
' O wae betide my ill mither,
An ill death may she die ! She has no been the deid o' anc,
But she 's been the deid of three.'
L
Then he 's ta'en out a little dart,
Hung low down by his gore, He thrust it through and through his heart,
And words spak never more. |
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deid] death. gore] skirt, waist. |
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