BY smooth winding Tay a swain was reclining,
Aft cry’d he, Oh hey! maun I still live pining
My sell thus away, and darna discover
To my bony Hay that I am her lover?
Nae mair it will hide, the fame waxes stranger;
If she’s not my bride, my days are nae langer:
Then I’ll take a heart, and try at a venture,
May be, e’er we part, my vows may content her.
She’s fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora,
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good mor-
The sward of the mead, enamel’d with daisies, (row:
Look wither’d and dead, when twin’d of her graces.
But if she appear where verdures invite her
The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the sweeter:
‘Tis heaven to be by, when her wit is a flowing,
Her smiles and bright eye set my spirits a glowing.
The mair that I gaze the deeper I’m wounded;
Struck dumb with amaze, my mind is confounded:
I’m all in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye,
For a’ my desire is Hay’s bony lassie.