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Auld Rob Morris

     There's Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
     He's the King o' gude fellows, and wale o' auld men;
     He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
     And ae bonie lass, his dautie and mine.

     She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
     She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
     As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
     And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

     But oh! she's an Heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
     And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
     A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
     The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

     The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
     The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
     I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
     And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

     O had she but been of a lower degree,
     I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
     O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
     As now my distraction nae words can express.

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