Robert Burns, from the Merry Muses of Caledonia, 1800 edition
Blythe, blythe, blythe was she,
Blythe was she but and ben,
An' weel she lo'ed it in her neive,
But better when it slippit in.
When a' the lave gaed tae their bed,
2. Or e'er I wist he laid me back,
3. The bawsent bitch she left the whalps,|
And hunted roond us at the fun,
As Andrew fodgel'd wi his airse,
And fir'd at me the cuttie gun.
4. O some delights in cuttie stoup,
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