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When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the the linn On the night breeze is swelling, So merrilly we'll sing, As the storm rattles o'er us, 'Till the dear sheeling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the summer is in prime, Wi' the flow’rs richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns, 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

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JOHNNIE LAD.

OCH hey! Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha e been, Och hey! Johnnie lad, Ye didna keep your tryst yestreen. I waited lang beside the wood, Sae wae and weary a' my lane, Och hey! Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been.

I looked by the whinny knowe, I looked by the firs sae green, I looked o'er the spunkie howe, And aye I thought ye wad hae been. The ne'er a supper cross'd my craig, The ne'er a sleep has clos'd my e'en, Och hey! Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been.