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Well lodge in some village on Tweed,
And love while the feather'd folks sing.
How does my love pass the long day ?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep ?
Do they never carelessly stray,
While happily she lies asleep ?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest :
Kind Nature indulging my bliss,
To ease the soft pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.
'Tis she does the virgins excel ;
No beauty with her may compare ;
Love's graces around her do dwell ;
She's fairest, where thousands are fair.
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ?
Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ?
Is it on the sweet-winding Tay,
Or pleasanter banks of the Tweed ?

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