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 And ay she wrought her Wither's wark.
 * And ay she sang sae inorrilic;

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.

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.