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COME awa', my fair love,
An' snuff the cauler air;
The sang o' th' turtle dove
Crunes saftly that nae mair
Do cauld an' wat invite
Us till the ingle-side;
Nor winter's plaid o' white
Spread out its faulds sae wide.
The primrose pavit th' mead,
The gowans teet on th' lea;
The burnie's arms are freed,
He loupit wi' liquid glee.
Sweet sangs hang on saft lips,
And float the land aboon;
The bee frae orchards sips
The life he 'll drap sae soon.
An' now the thorn pats on
Her robe o' white an' green,
An' glint the rigs o' corn
Tender as maidens' een.
Then come, my ain fair love,
An' snuff the cauler air;
Fair is the lift above,
But shaw thy face mae fair.
Come list the winter greet
To scent the grape's good smell,
An' daunce wi' flyin' feet
Roun's grave in yonder dell.
Laugh at the wind's sair mane,
As Spring gies her sweet smile,
An' drives him till his hame,
In his far ocean isle.
Come, let me hear thy sang,
Here where the gowans keek;
Be it sweet as 't is lang,
As the rose on thy cheek.
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