Cradle Sang
Fa’ owre, fa’ owre, my hinny,
There’s monie a weary airt;
And nae end to the traikin,
For man has a hungry hert.
What wud ye hae for ferlie
And no ken the want o’ mair?
The sün for a gowdan aipple:
The müne for a siller pear.
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