I'll sing ye a stave if ye'll gie me your attention. It's nae tale o' pity, it's nae tale o' woe, And nae word o' honour, or love will I mention, For it concerns a lassie I kent lang ago. CHORUS: Nae better than maist, and nae worse as mony, And what drew me tae her's no easy tae say. She was coorse, she was hertless, and she wisnae that bonny, But she was the star o' the bar in her day. I've stravaiged the Royal Mile wi' her, drinking in style wi' her. Rose Street fae end tae end aften surveyed, Fought and swore in the pubs wi' her, rolled in the dubs wi' her, Cadged many subs fae her, never repayed. So you lads wi' young lasses, believe me love soon passes, And all your bright dreams are but straes in the wind. Better one who'll sit doon wi' ye, sing a fine tune wi' ye, Pass the glass roond wi' ye, drink hersel' blind.
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