My love she’s but a lassie yet;
My love she’s but a lassie yet;
We’ll let her stand a year or twa,
She’ll no be half sae saucy yet.
I rue the day I sought her, O,
I rue the day I sought her, O;
Wha gets her needs na say she’s woo’d,
But he may say he’s bought her, O!
Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet;
Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet;
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will,
But here I never miss’d it yet.
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t,
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t;
The minister kiss’d the fiddler’s wife,
An’ could na preach for thinkin’ o’t.