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‹‹‹ prev (50) Page 46Page 46Duncan Gray

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Shall I, like a ftol, quoth he i?
For a haughty hussy die ;
She may gae to France for me.,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
How it comes let dortons tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ;
Meg grew sick, as he grew well,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ;
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief, a sigh she brings,
An' oh her e'en they spnk sic things,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Maggy's was a ticklish case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan could not be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath :
Now they're crouse an' canty baitk a
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

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