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Rh Gang down the burn, my Meg, he cry’d,

Gang down the burn wi’ me.

Hout lad, gang firſt afore the Prieſt,

and then I ſe gang wi’ thee.

T bird that hears her neſtlings cry,

and flies abroad for food.

Returns impatient thro’ the ſky,

to nurſe the callow brood:

The tender mother knows no joy,

but bodes a thouſand harms,

And ſickens for the darling boy,

when abſent from her arms.

Such fondneſs, with impatience join’d,

my faithful boſom fires;

Now forc’d to leave my fair behind,

the queen of my deſires:

The pow’rs of verſe too languid prove,

all ſimiles are vain,

To ſhew now ardently I love,

or to relieve my pain.

My foul’s with ardent love inſpir’d,

ſure ’tis a gift divine:

No lover ever was ſo fir’d

with love more pure than mine.