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8
But now her sweets makes it decay,
It fades us in December.
Ye rural powers who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me,
Oh make her partner in my pains,
Then let her smiles relieve me.
If not my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender,
l‘ll leave the Bush aboon Traquire,
To lonely woods I’ll wander.
FINIS.
