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Hill Ghosts

THERE'S a wind that cries in the hills to-day,
(Fingal, Fingal, and the low mists creeping!)
And it's O for South Esk under skies of gray….
South Esk and the brown trout leaping!

Fires of whin on a brown hill side,
Robin jerkined in scarlet feather;
Trysting there with his dear wee bride,
In the spell of the mountain weather……

But old Fingal is a world away,
By Malahide and the low mists creeping;
And it's O for South Esk under skies of gray,
South Esk and the brown trout leaping!

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