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Poem	AS I was a-wand’ring ae morning in spring, I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing; And as he was singin’, thir words he did say,— There’s nae life like the ploughman’s in the month o’ sweet May. The lav’rock in the morning she’ll rise frae her nest, And mount i’ the air wi’ the dew on her breast, And wi’ the merry ploughman she’ll whistle and sing, And at night she’ll return to her nest back again.
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