There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He’s the king o’ gude fellows and wale of auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
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 lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e.
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.
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.
O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me;
O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!