Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Paul Clayton
Yestreen I wed a lady fair
And wad ye believe me
On her gate, there grows nae hair
And that's the thing that grieves me
It vexed me, sair
It plagued me, sair
It put me in a passion
To think that I had wed a wife
Whose gate was out o' fashion