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 Slighted love is fair to bide, ha ha the wooing o’t. Shall I like a fool quoth he, For a haughty hussy die; She may gae to France for me, ha ha the wooing o’t.

How it comes let Doctors tell, ha ha the wooing o’t Meg grew sick as he grew well, ha ha the wooing o’t, Something in her bosom rings, For relief a sigh she brings, And oh her een they spak sic things, ha ha the wooing o’t.

Duncan was a lad of grace, ha ha the wooing o’t Maggy’s was a tickling case, ha ha the wooing o’t. Duncan could not be her death, Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath; Now they’re crouse an canty baith, ha ha the wooing o’t.

J B dwalt on Clyde, The place they ca’d it Tradbletony;