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The Song Book 223
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; Ha, ha, the wooin' o't.
Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't; Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie dee ? She may gae to—France for me !
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't.
How it comes, let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't; Meg grew sick—as he grew well,
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings ; And O, 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 cantie baith !
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't.
Words by Burns.
Tine Duncan Gray. |
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