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Dorothy, dozen'd wi' living her lane, Pu'd at her rock, wi' the tear in her e'e,                      Nae thought on the braw merry days that were gane, And caft a wee coggie for company. Now aye she sings weels ne, aye she sings weels me, Coggie thou heals me, coggie thou heals me, Aye my best friend, when there's ony thing ails me, Ne'er shall we part, till the day that I die.

--

MY MARY.

My Mary is a bonnie lassie, Sweet as dewy morn, When fancy tunes her rural reed, Beside the upland thorn. She lives ahint yon sunny knowe, Where flowers in wild profusion grow, Whore spreading birks and hazels throw Their shadows o'er the burn.

"Tis no the streamlet skirted wood,                                Wi' a' its leafy bow'rs,                               That gars me wait in solitude                                 Among the wild sprung flow'rs;                               But aft I cast a langing e'e,                               Down frae the bank out-owre the lea,                               There haply I my lass may see,                                 As through the broom she scours.

Yestreen 1 met my bonny lassie Coming frae the town, We raptur'd sunk in ither's arms And prest the breckans down; The paitrick sung his e’ening note, The rye-craik rispt his clam'rous throat, While there the heav'nly vow I got, That erl'd her my own.