To the Tune of, Last time I came o’er the moor.
YE blytheft lads, and lasses gay,
Hear what my sang discloses.
As I ae morning sleeping lay,
Upon a bank of roses,
Young Jamie whisking o’er the mead,
By good luck chanc’d to spy me;
He took his bonnet aff his head,
And saftly set down by me.
Jamie tho’ I right meikle priz‘d,
Yet now I wadna ken him;
But with a frown my face disguis’d
And strave away to send him:
But fondly he still nearer prest,
And by my side down lying,
His beating heart thumped sae saft,
I thought the lad was dying.
But still resolving to deny,
And angry passion feigning,
I aften roughly shot him by,
With words full of disdaining.
Poor Jamie bawk’d, nae favour wins,
Went aff much discontented;
But I in truth for a’ my sins,
Ne’er haf sae fair repented.
– Authors Unknown.