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Be it lad, or be it lass,
Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone, Sign wi' cross, and sain wi' mass.
Earth fits fast, and time draws on,
Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,
Day is near the breaking.
“ The songstress paused, and was answered by one Fast upon St. Andrew's day.
or two deep and hollow groans, that seemed to pro
ceed from the very agony of the mortal strife. • It Saint Bride and her brat
will not be,' she muttered to herself. “He cannot Saint Colme and her cat,
pass away with that on his mind; it tethers him here. Saint Michael and his spear,
Heaven cannot abide it ;
Earth refuses to hide it.
I must open the door.'
She lifted the latch, saying,