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*' And waly, waly, my master dear,
Gin ye look pale and lean !
have ye tint, at tournament,
Your sword, or yet your spear ?
Or mourn ye for the southern lass,
Whom ye may not win near ?"
'' I have not tint, at tournament^
My sword, nor yet my spear;
But sair I mourn for my true love,
Wi' mony a bitter tear.
But weels me on ye, my gay goss hawk,
Ye can baith speak and flee :
Ye sail carry a letter to my love.
Bring an answer back to me."
" But how sail I your true love find,
Or how sail I her know ?
1 bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,
An eye that ne'er her saw."
" O weel sail ye my true love ken.
As sune as ye her see ;
For, of a' the flouirs o' fair England,
The fairest flouir is she.
The thing o' my love's face that's white,
Is like the dove or maw ;*
The thing o' my love's face that's red.
Is like blude shed on snaw.
And even at my true love's bouir door,
There gi-ows a flouiring birk ;-|-
And ye maun sit and sing thereon,
As she comes frae the kirk.
* The sea-mew. t Birch,

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