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Lata is long and dreigh. Little wars an ill hussie what a dinner holds in. Lips go, laps go, he that eats, let him pay. Let alone makes many lurden. Little kens the wife that sits by the fire, how the wind blows cold in hurle-burle swyre. Little troubles the eye, but far lesse the soul. Love me little, and love me long. Many do lack, that yet would fain have in their pack.
Little kens the auld wife that sits by the fire, How cauld the wind blaws in hurle-burle swire." And singing as he went, he left the apartment. Now, Billy Berwick, keep good heart, And of they talking let me be; But if thou art a man, as I am sure thou art, Come over the dike and fight with me. Old Ballad.
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