Px-pYKS^-J 3 ATIEKCE, 
W^OU'LL love me yet!—and I can tarry 
® Your love’s protracted growing: 
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry. 
From seeds of April’s sowing. 
You’ll look at least on love’s 
A grave's one violet : 
Your look ’—that pays a thousand pains. 
What’s death ? You’ll love me yet! 
Robert Browning. 
/|p>)Y father urgit sair: my mother didna speak ; 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to' 
break : 
They gi’ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea; 
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. 
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a 
But I’ll do my best a gude wife aye to be, 
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me. 
T.n/iv A. Barnard. 
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