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Of years scant twenty-five was he,

And comely was his face;
His yellow locks, in ringlets free,

Hung down his neck with grace.

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His cheeks were red, for health was there,

And taught the blood to flow;
His limbs were strong, yet light as air

He chac'd the bounding roe.

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They see the lovers ford the Tweed,

To whom thus Murray kind,
Fly on, my friends, with treble speed,

While I remain behind.

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