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I’ve seen the morning with gold the hills adorning,
And loud tempest storming before the midday;
I’ve seen Tweed’s silver streams, shining in the sunny beams,
Grow drumlie and dark as they roll’d on their way.
O fickle fortune! why this cruel sporting,
O why still perplex us poor sons of a a day.
Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, nae mair your frowns can fear me,
For the flow’rs of the forest are wither’d away.
FINIS.
