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Mid wind and rain he told his tale,
My lightsome grew like a feather,
It lap sae quick I could nae speak,
But silent sigh'd amang the heather.
O my bonny &c.

The storm blew past, we kiss'd in haste,
I hameward ran and told my mither,
She gloom'd at first but soon confess'd,
The bowls row'd right amang the heather.
O my bonny &c.

Now Hymen's beam gilds bank and stream,
Whar Will and I fresh flowers will gather,
Nae storms I fear, I've got my dear
Kind hearted lad amang the heather.

O my bonny highland laddie,
My winsome weelfar'd highland laddie,
Should storms appear my Will's ay near,
To row me in his tartan plaidie.


ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.

What? is there ill news you're so sad,
Robin Gray,
That thy blue bonnet's pull'd o'er thy brow,
O sad news, sad, sad!