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Rh For a’ the claith that we ha’e worn,

Frae her and her ſae aften ſhorn,

The loſs of her we cou’d ha’e born,

Had fair ſtrae death ta’en her awa’.

The ewie, &c.

But this poor thing to loſe her life

Aneath a greedy villain’s knife,

I’m really fear’d that our goodwife

Will never win aboon’t ava’.

The ewie, &c.

O all ye bards aneath Kinghorn,

Call up your muſes, let them mourn;

Our ewie wi’ the crooked horn

Is ſtown frae us, and fell’d and a’.

The ewie, &c.

S wedlock’s in vogue. & ſtale virgins deſpis’d,

To all batchelors, preeting, theſe lines are premis’d:

I’m a maid that would marry, oh! could I but find;

I care not for fortune— a man to my mind.

A man to my mind,

A man to my mind,

I care not for fortune— a man to my mind. Rh