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‘What’ll cum o your ladie and bonnie young son?
O what’ll cum o them when Braikley is gone?’
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‘I never will turn: do you think I will fly?
But here I will ficht, and here I will die.’
31
‘Strik dogs,’ crys Inverey, ‘and ficht till ye’re slayn,
For we are four hundered, ye are but four men.
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