NOW wat ye wha I met yestreen,
Coming down the street, my jo?
My mistris in her tartan screen,
Fow bony, braw and sweet, my jo.
My dear, quoth I, thanks to the night,
That never wisht a lover ill,
Since ye’re out of your mither’s sightm
Let’s take a wauk up to the hill,
O Katy, wiltu gang wi’ me,
And leave the dinsome town a while;
The blossom’s sprouting frae the tree,
And a’ the summer’s gawn to smile:
The mavis, nightingale and lark,
The bleeting lambs and whistling hynd,
In ilka dale, green, shaw and park,
Will nourish health and glad ye’r mind.
Soon as the clear goodman of day
Bends his morning draught of dew,
We’ll gae to some burn-side and play,
And gather flowers to busk ye’r brow.
We’ll pou the daisies on the green,
The lucken gowans frae the bog:
Between hands now and then we’ll lean,
And sport upo’ the velvet fog.
There’s up into a pleasant glen,
A wee piece frae my father’s tower,
A canny, saft and flow’ry den,
Which circling birks have form’d a bower:
When e’er the sun grows high and warm,
We’ll to the cauler shade remove,
There will I lock thee in mine arm,
And love and kiss, and kiss and love.