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 And two upon the gab of it, And you shall have them a'.

The priest he's standing at the gate, Just ready to come in; No man can say that he was born, No man without a sip. A hole cut in his mother's side, He from the same did fa; So we shall both lie in ae bed, And thou's lie next the wal',

O little did this lady think, That morning when she rose, That it was to be the very last, Of all her maiden days. But there is not in the king's realm, To be found a blyther twa; And now they lie into ae bed, And she lies next the wa'.

THE WANDERING BOY.

When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, The cottager shots on the beggar his door, When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, How hard is the fate of the wandering boy.