| Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes
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| Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise
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| My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream
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| Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream
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| Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro’the glen
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| Ye wild whistly blackbirds in yon thorny den
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| Thou green crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear
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| I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair
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| Oh, how lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills
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| Far mark’d with the courses of clear winding rills
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| There daily I wander as noon rises high, oooh
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| My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye
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| How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below
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| Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow
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| There oft, as mild evening sweeps over the lea
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| The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides
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| And winds by the cot where my Mary resides
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| How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave
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| As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave
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| Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes
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| Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays
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| My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream
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| So flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dreams |