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Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring prattle! The decayed hollows which we have mentioned as so often productive of little owls have their possibilities by no means exhausted by one visit.
This was the sunshine of their love; but the storms were already gathering in the distance. "The sigh that lifts her breastie comes. Like sad winds frae the sea, Wi' sic a dreary sough, as wad Bring tears into yer e'e."
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