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THE WHUSTLIN’ LAD
There’s a wind comes doon frae the braes when
the licht is spreadin’
Chilly an’ grey,
An’ the auld cock craws at the yett o’ the muir-
land steadin’
Cry in’ on day ;
The hoose lies sound an’ the sma’ mune’s deein’
an’ weary
Watchin’ her lane,
The shadows creep by the dyke an’ the time
seems eerie,
But the lad i’ the fields he is whustlin’ cheery,
cheery,
'Yont i’ the rain.
My mither stirs as she wauks wi’ her twa een
blinkin’.
Bedded she’ll bide,
43

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