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Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle,
Oh sell your fiddle sae fine;
Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle,
And buy a pint o' wine.

If I should sell my fiddle,

The warl would think I was mad;

For mony a rantin' day

My fiddle and I hae had.
As I cam by Crochallan,
I cannily keekit ben-
Rattlin' roarin' Willie

Was sitting at yon board en'-
Sitting at yon board en',

And amang guid companie;
Rattlin' roarin' Willie,

Ye're welcome hame to me !

RAVING WINDS AROUND HER

BLOWING.

TUNE-Macgregor of Ruara's Lament.
RAVING winds around her blowing,
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing,
By a river hoarsely roaring,
Isabella stray'd deploring-

"Farewell hours that late did measure
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure;
Hail thou gloomy night of sorrow,
Cheerless night that knows no morrow!
O'er the past too fondly wandering,
On the hopeless future pondering;
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes,
Fell despair my fancy seizes.

Life, thou soul of every blessing,
Load to misery most distressing,
Gladly how would I resign thee,
And to dark oblivion join thee !"

ROBIN.

TUNE-Dainty Davie.

THERE was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o' whatna style,
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.
Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin' rovin' Robin!

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.

The gossip keekit in his loof,

Quo scho, wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof;
I think we'll ca' him Robin.

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',
But aye a heart aboon them a';
He'll be a credit till us a'-

We'll a' be proud o' Robin.

But sure as three times three mak nine, I see by ilka score and line,

This chap will dearly like our kin',

So leeze me on thee, Robin.

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ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST.

CHORUS.

ROBIN shure in hairst,

I shure wi' him;
Fient a heuk had I,
Yet I stack by him.
I gaed up to Dunse,

To warp a wab o' plaiden;
At his daddie's yett,

Wha met me but Robin?

Was na Robin bauld,

Though I was a cotter,

Play'd me sic a trick,

And me the eller's dochter?

Robin promised me

A' my winter vittle;

Fient haet he had but three

Goose feathers and a whittle.

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SAE FAR AWA.

TUNE-Dalkeith Maiden Bridge.

Он, sad and heavy should I part,
But for her sake sae far awa;
Unknowing what my way may thwart
My native land sae far awa.

Thou that of a' things Maker art,
That form'd this fair sae far awa,
Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start
At this my way sae far awa.

How true is love to pure desert,
So love to her, sae far awa:
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart,
While, oh! she is sae far awa.
Nane other love, nane other dart,
I feel but her's, sae far awa;
But fairer never touch'd a heart
Than her's, the fair sae far awa.

SAW YE MY PHELY.

TUNE-When she cam ben she bobbit.

Он, saw ye my dear, my Phely?
Oh, saw ye my dear, my Phely?
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love,
She winna come hame to her Willy.

What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
What says she, my dearest, my Phely
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,
And for ever disowns thee, her Willy.
On, had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair,
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy.

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.
TUNE-She's fair and fause.

SHE's fair and fause that causes my smart,
I loed her meikle and lang;

She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, And I may e'en gae hang.

A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear,
And I hae tint my dearest dear;
But woman is but warld's gear,

Sae let the bonnie lassie gang.

Whae'er ye be that woman love,
To this be never blind,

Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove,
A woman has❜t by kind.

Oh woman, lovely woman fair!
An angel form's fa'n to thy share,
'Twad been ower meikle to gien thee mair-
I mean an angel mind.

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SHE SAYS SHE LOES ME BEST
OF A'.

TUNE-Onagh's Lock.

SAE flaxen were her ringlets,

Her eyebrows of a darker hue,
Bewitchingly o'er-arching

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue
Her smiling, sae wiling,

Wad make a wretch forget his woe:
What pleasure, what treasure,

Unto these rosy lips to grow: Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw, And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she loes me best of a',

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