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Gae her meat--and claise--and siller; Gae her bairnie's wark and lear; Lastly, gae this cot-house till her, Wi four sterling pounds a year.

Willie, heark’ning, wiped his e'en aye;- Oh! what sins hae I to rue! ‘But say, wha's this angel, Jeanie! ‘Wha,' quo Jeanie, but Buccleugh!

‘Here, supported—-cheered—and cherished Nine blessed months I've lived an mair; Seen these infants clad and nourished, Dried my tears and tint despair:

Sometimes serving, sometimes spinning, Light the lanesome hours gae round: Lightly, too, ilk quarter rinning, Brings yon angel's helping pound!

Eight pounds mair, cried Willie, fondly, Eight pounds mair, will do nae harm, And, O Jean, gin friends war kindly, Eight pounds soon might stock a farm.

There ance mair to thrive by ploughing Freed fra a' that peące destroys, Idle waste and drucken ruin, War, and a' its murdering joys!

Thrice he kissed his lang lost treasure; Thrice ilka bairn—but could nae speak Tears of luve, and hope, and pleasure, Streamed in silence down his cheek.