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3 I’ll shake my fit wi' right guid will,

Gif you'll blaw up your chanter.

Then to his bags he flew wi' speed,

About the drone he twisted;

Meg up and walloped o’er the green,

For brawly could she firisk it.

Weel done quoth he—play up, quoth she,

Weel bob’d quoth Rob the Ranter;

’Tis worth my while to play indeed,

When I hae sic a dancer.

Weel hae you play’d your part, says Meg,

Your cheeks are like the crimson

Theres nane in Scotland plays like you,

Since we lost Rabby Simpson.

I’ve liv'd in Fife baith maid and wife,

These ten years and a quarter;

Gin ye come here to Anster fair,

Spier ye for Maggy Lauther.

The Miller.

may the maid be,

That marries the Miller,

For foul day and fair day

He’s ay bringing, till her.