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As I cam in by our gate-end, As day was waxen weary, O wha cam tripping down the street But bonnie Peg, my dearie! Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, Wi' nae proportion wanting, The queen of love did never move Wi' motion mair enchanting. Wi' linked hands we took the sands Adown yon winding river; And, oh! that hour, and broomy bower, Can I forget it ever!
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