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GIL MOERICK. |
39 |
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" Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, Ze neir can heal the wound;
Ze see his head upon the speir, His heart's blude on the ground.
" I curse the hand that did the deid, The heart that thocht the ill;
The feet that bore me wi' sik speid, The comely zouth to kill.
" I '11 ay lament for Gill Morice,
As gin he were mine ain; I '11 neir forget the dreiry day
On which the zouth was slain." |
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