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In some sweet wee bow'ry den;
Or fondly stray amang the rashes,
Wi' the lassie o' the glen.
O the birken, &c.

But tho' I wander now unhappy,
Far frae scenes we haunted then,
I'll ne'er forget the—bank sae grassy,
Nor—the lassie o' the glen.
O the birken, &c.


O are ye sleeping, Maggie,
O are ye sleeping, Maggie;
Let me in, for loud the linn
Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie.

Mirk and rainy is the night,
No a starn in a' the carry;
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive wi' winter's fury.
O are ye, &c.

Fearful soughs the boortree bank,
The rifted wood roars wild and drearie;
Loud the iron yate does clank,
And cry of howlets maks me eerie.
O are ye, &c.