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Fat hae I for door-thrashel ?
Twa mile o’ yird-fast stane—
At the gell, cheese-press and chassel,
Ringed for a bridle rein—
A queer beild,
A drear beild,
But ne’er a lord nor duke
Craws crouser in his castle
Than me in my wee neuk.
Lane reeks my lum owre corries—
An*—fa wad foord the linn ?—
But I rax me doon my Horace,
An’ draw my lug-chair in
To the peat lowe,
The sweet lowe,
Anaith the swye an’ crook—
Wi’ the aul’ collie speldert
Aside me i’ the neuk.
A’ gane, the fu’-an’-free days,
Wi’ you aul’ frien’,
A’ bye, the you-an’-me days,
Wi’ you bonnie Jean,
46

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