There’s Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,He’s the King o’ gude fellows, and wale o’ auld men;He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,And ae bonie lass, his dautie and mine.4
She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay;As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e.8
But oh! she’s an Heiress, auld Robin’s a laird,And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.12
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.16
O had she but been of a lower degree,I then might hae hop’d she wad smil’d upon me!O how past descriving had then been my bliss,As now my distraction nae words can express.20