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 Forgive me. ye maid of sweet Clutha,

My heart is wi’ her that’s awa.

O love thou’rt a dear fleeting pleasure,

The sweetest we mortals here know,

But soon as thy heav’n bright beaming,

O’ercast with the darkness of wo.

As the moon on the oft changing ocean,

Delight’s the lone mariner’s eye,

Till red rush the storms of the desert.

And dark billows tumble on high.

O wha's at my chaumber door?

'Fair widow, are ye wauking?'

Auld Carle, your suit give o'er,

Your love lies a' in tauking’

Give me the lad that's young and tight,

Sweet like an April meadow;

'Tis sic as he can bless the sight

And bosom of a widow,—

'O widow, wilt thou let me in,

I'm pauky, wise, and thrifty,

And come of a right gentle kin,

An’ little mair than fifty.'

Daft carle, dit your mouth,

What signifies how pauky

Or gentle bora ye be—bot youth,

In love your but a gawky.