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                      23 And ay she wrought her mither’s wark, And ay she sang sae merrilie ; The blithest bird upon the bush, Had ne’er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite’s nest; And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad, The flower and pride of a’ the glen ; And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, And wanton nagies nine or ten.

He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryst, He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down ; And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o’ the stream The moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en;. So trembling pure, was tender love Within the breast o’ bonny Jean.

I And now she works her mither’s wark, And ay she sighs wi’ care and pain ; Yet wist na what her ail might be. Or what wad mak her weel again.