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(131) next ››› Page 123Page 123Poor bowlman's remonstrance

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Since now he's gane, and Burns is dead,
Ah ! wha will tune the Scottish reed ?
Her Thistle, dowie, hings its head ;
Her harp's unstrung ;
While mountain, river, loch and mead,
Remain unsung
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Fareweel, thou much neglected bard !
These lines will speak my warm regard.
While strangers on a foreign sward
Thy worth hold dear
Still some kind heart thy name shall guard
Unsullied here,

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