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(268) next ››› Page 252Page 252My only jo and dearie o

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251
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs.
And greet till I am blind.
Enouch o' bluid by me's bin spilt,
Seek not zour death frae me ;
I rather it had bin mysel,
Than eather him or thee.
Wi' waefou wae I hear zour plaint $
Sair, sair I rew the deid,
That eir this cursed hand o' mine
Had gard his body bleid.
Dry up zour tears, my winsom dame,
Ze neir can heal the wound j
Ze see his head upon the speir,
His heart's bluid on the ground.
I curse the hand that did the deid,
The heart that thocht the ill,
The feit that bore me wi' sic speid,
The comely zouth to kill.
I'll ay lament for Gil Morrice,
As gin he were my ain ;
I'll neir forget the dreiry day,
On which the zouth was slain,

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