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THE WHUSTLIN’ LAD 45
Up at the steadin’ the trail of the mist has liftit
Clear frae the ground,
Mither breathes saft an’ her face to the wa’ she’s
shiftit—
Aye, but she’s sound !
Lad, ye may come, for there’s nane but mysel’
will hear ye
Oot by the stair,
But whustle you on an’ I winna hae need to fear
ye,
For, laddie, the lips that keep whustlin’, whust-
lin’ cheery
Canna dae mair !
8

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