Page:Irish wedding (1).pdf/8

8 Awa, ye thoughtless murd'ring gang,

Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee!

They'll sing you yet a canty sang

Then o in pity let them be!

When winter blaws in sleety show'rs,

Frre aff the norlin' hills sae hie,

He lightly shiffs thy bonny bow'rs,

As laith to harm a flow'r in thee.

Thou &c.

Tho' fate should drag me south the line,

Or o'er the wide Atlantic ,

The happy hours I'll ever mind,

That I in youth ha'e spent in thee.

Thou bonnie, &c.

FINIS.