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(166) Page 130 - Bard
130
THE BARD.
Irish Air — The Brown Maid*
The Bard strikes his harp the wild valleys amang^
Wha,re the tall aiken trees spreading leafy appeal*;,
While the murmuring breeze mingles sweet wi' his sang^,
An' wafts the saft notes till they die on the ear :
But Mary, whase presence sic transport conveys,
Whase beauties my moments o' pleasure control.
On the sti-ings o' my heart ever wantonly plays.
An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul !
Her breath is as sweet as the sweet-scented brier.
That blossoms an' blaws in yon wild lanely glen ;
Whan I view her fau- form, which nae mortal can peer,
A something o'ei'powers me I dinna weel ken.

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