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In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig;
There, at them thou they tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross!
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake;
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man, and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty sarks run in your mind,
Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear:
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

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Holy Willie was a rather oldish bachelor elder, in the parish of Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering which ends in tippling orthodoxy, and for that spiritualized bawdry which refines to liquorish devotion. In a sessional process with a gentleman in Mauchline-a Mr. Gavin HamiltonHoly Willie and his priest, Father Auld, after full hearing in the Presbytery of Ayr, came off but second best, owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr. Robert Aiken, Mr. Hamilton's counsel; but chiefly to Mr. Hamilton's being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the country. On losing his process, the muse overheard him at his devotions, as follows."

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VIII

Besides, I farther maun avow

Wi' Leezie's lass, three times, I trow But, Lord, that Friday I was fou, When I cam near her,

Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true Wad never steer her.

IX

Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high should turn
That he 's sae gifted:

If sae, Thy han' maun e'en be borne

Until Thou lift it.

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YE banks and braes o' bonie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary fu' o' care!

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Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling THE LOVELY LASS OF INVER

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NESS

I

THE lovely lass of Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en to morn she cries "Alas!" And ay the saut tear blin's her e'e:

II

"Drumossie moor, Drumossie day – A waefu' day it was to me! For there I lost my father dear,

My father dear and brethren three.

III

"Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growin green to see, to And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's e'e.

IV

"Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be,
For monie a heart thou hast made sair
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!"

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