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Rh Ye little warblers ful be,

remember not ye flew;

For I, who thought myſelf ſo free;

am far more caught than you.

W tuneful pipe, and merry glee,

young Willy won my heart;

A blither ſwain you cou’dna ſee,

all beauty without art.

Willy’s rare, and Willy’s fair,

and Willy’s wond’rous bonny;

And Willy ſays he’ll marry me,

gin e’er he marry ony.

O came you by yon water-ſide?

Pull’d yon the roſe or lily?

Or came you by yon meadow-green

Or ſaw you my ſweet Willy?

Willy’s rare, and Willy’s fair, &c.

Sin’ now the trees are in their bloom,

and flowers ſpread o’er ilk field,

I’ll meet my lad among the broom,

and lead him to my ſummer’s ſhield.

Willy’s rare, and willy’s fair, &c.