Braw braw lads on Yarrow braes,

Ye wander thro’ the blooming heather;

But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws

Can match the lads o’ Gala Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane,

Aboon them a’ I lo’e him better;

And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine,

The bonnie lad o’ Gala Water.

Altho’ his daddie was nae laird,

And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher,

Yet rich in kindest, truest love,

We’ll tent our flocks by Gala Water.

It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth,

That coft contentment, peace or pleasure;

The bands and bliss o’ mutual love,

O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure!