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T wintry days grew lang, my tears they were a' spent;

May be it was despair I fancied was content.

They said my cheek was wan; I cou'dna look to see—

For, oh! the wee bit glass, my Jamie gaed it me.

My father he was sad, my mother dull and wae;

But that which grieved me maist, it was Auld Robin Gray;

Though ne'er a word he said, his cheek said mair than a',

It wasted like a brae o'er which the torrents fa'.

He gaed into his bed—nae physic wad he take;

And oft he moan'd, and said, "It's better, for her sake."

At length he look'd upon me, and call'd me his "ain dear,"

And beckon'd round the neighbours, as if his hour drew near.

"I've wrong'd her sair," he said, "but kent the truth o'er late;

Its grief for that alone that hastens now my date.

But a' is for the best, since death will shortly free

A young and faithful heart that was ill match'd wi' me.