When o’er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow’d field
Return sae dowf and wearie O;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi’ dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.
In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie O,
If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.
Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild,
And I were ne’er sae wearie O,
I’d meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.
The hunter lo’es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o’ gloamin grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.