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24
Some said it was the pith o’ broom,
That she stow’d in her masking loom,
Which in our heads rais’d sic a foom.
Or some wild seed,
Which aft the chappen-stoup did toom.
But fill’d our head.
But now since ’tis sae that wo must,
Not in the best ale put our trust.
But when we’re auld return to dust,
Without remead;
Why should we tak’ it in disgust.
Since Maggy’s dead.

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