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 Who picks and culls and cries aloud. “Sweet lilies of the valley.“

From whistling o'er the harrowed turf, From nestling of each tree, I chose a soldier's life to wed, So social gay, and free; Yet tho the lasses love me well. And often try to rally. None, pleases me like her who cries, “Sweet lilies of the valley.‘

I'm now returned of late discharged To see my native soil; From fighting in my country's cause, To plough my country's soil: I care not which with either pleased, So I possess my Sally That little merry nymph, who cries, “Sweet lilies of the valley“

The sun in the west fads to rest in the e'vning, Ilk morn blinks chearfu' upon the green lea: But ah! on pillow of sorrow aye leaning, Nae morning, nae e’vning brings pleasure to me.