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 There's mony a ane for less wad mane, In drear kirk-yards an' a' that, An' tell the pale moon sic a tale, Wad break her heart an' a' that Till frae his wits like a' that, He'd take a race wi' a' that, Some gloamin' grey, and syle the Tay, Cheat fishermen, an' a' that.

But by my sooth, I wad be laith, Sic pranks to play, an' a’ that, Nor shall she boast, that I hae lost, Ae hours repose for a' that. She's fair, but what o' a' that. There's plenty mair wi' a' that, That glad will be to mak wi' me, A wedding o't, an' a' that

ten-hour bell wi' heavy jow, Had rung in ilka borough town, The winds sough'd dreary o'er the knowe, And night had on her blackest gown. As at the fire I sat alane, Wi' tears o' sorrow i' my ee,