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465
Their waefu' fate what need I tell !
Richt to the wrang did yield ;
My Donald and his country fell
Upon Culloden-field.
Ochon, ochon, oh, Donald, oh I
Ochon, ochon, ochrie !
Nae woman in this warld wide
Sae wretched now as me.*
A RED RED ROSE.
BURNS.
Tune — Low down in the Brume.
O, MY luve's like a red red rose,
That's newly sprung in June ;
O, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
Sae deep in luve am I ;
And I will love thee still, my dear
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear.
And the rocks melt wi' the sun ;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel a while !
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
* From the Jacobite Relics, 1821.

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