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"Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, Wi' you, mysel, I got a fright Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight Wi' waving sough. "The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristled hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch stour, 'quaick! quaick! Among the springs Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, On whistling wings."
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