Braw, braw lads on Yarrow-braes,They rove amang the blooming heather;But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shawsCan match the lads o’ Galla Water.
But there is ane, a secret ane,Aboon them a’ I loe him better;And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine,The bonie lad o’ Galla Water.
Altho’ his daddie was nae laird,And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher,Yet rich in kindest, truest love,We’ll tent our flocks by Galla Water.
It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth,That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure;The bands and bliss o’ mutual love,O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure.