| She wore the guise of a winter squall
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| Blowing through my empty hall,
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| With rime on window, frost on sill,
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| And icicle on gable bell.
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| Then she wore the guise of fallow doe,
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| As great with young as she could go.
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| Then she turned to me, then turned to go,
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| Leaving footprints in the snow.
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| But when a man’s in love he feels no cold,
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| when a man’s in love he feels no cold.
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| When a man’s in love he feels no cold,
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| When a man’s in love he feels no cold.
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| So bake for us the bridal bread,
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| And brew the bridal beer, oh.
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| And make for us the bridal bed,
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| And we will disappear, oh.
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| And farewell to the Clyde water,
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| The gently flowing river.
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| My love and I are going away,
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| Although we know not whither.
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| When a man’s in love he feels no cold,
|
| When a man’s in love he feels no cold.
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| So bake for us the bridal bread,
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| And brew the bridal beer, oh.
|
| And make for us the bridal bed,
|
| And we will disappear, oh.
|
| And farewell to the Clyde water,
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| The gently flowing river.
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| My love and I are going away,
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| Although we know not whither.
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| My love and I are going away,
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| Although we know not whither. |