By Ochtertyre there grows the aik,

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;

But Phemie was a bonnier lass

Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw.

Blythe, blythe and merry was she,

Blythe was she but and ben:

Blythe by the banks of Earn,

And blythe in Glenturit glen.

Her looks were like a flower in May,

Her smile was like a simmer morn;

She trippèd by the banks of Earn

As light’s a bird upon a thorn.

Her bonnie face it was as meek

As ony lamb’s upon a lea;

The evening sun was ne’er sae sweet

As was the blink o’ Phemie’s e’e.

The Highland hills I’ve wander’d wide,

And o’er the Lowlands I hae been;

But Phemie was the blythest lass

That ever trod the dewy green.