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THE BIRD SINGS:
My nestie it lieth
I' the how o' a han'; (hollow)
The swing o' the scythe
'Ill miss 't by a span.
The lift it's sae cheerie!
The win' it's sae free!
I hing ower my dearie,
An' sing 'cause I see.
My wifie's wee breistie
Grows warm wi' my sang,
An' ilk crumpled-up beastie
Kens no to think lang.
Up here the sun sings, but
He only shines there!
Ye haena nae wings, but
Come up on a prayer.
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