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 It’s not the cauld that makes me cry,

But my love‘s heart grown caulà to me.

When we came in by Glasgow town,

We were a comely sight to see;

My love was clad in velvet black,

And I myself in cramasie.

But had I wist before I kist,

That love had been sae ill to win,

I’d lock‘d my heart in a case of gold,

And pin‘d it with a silver pin,

Oh ! oh ! if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse s knee;

And I mysel were dead and gane,

For maid again I ll never be.