There’s Auld Rob Morris that wons in yonglen,
He’s the King o’ gudefellows, and waleo’auld men;
He has gowdin his coffers, he has owsenand kine,
And aebonielass, his dautie and mine.
She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She’s sweet as the ev’ning amangthe new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e.
But oh! she’s anHeiress, auldRobin’s a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunnahope 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 lanelike a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
O had she butbeen of a lower degree,
I then might haehop’d she wadsmil’d upon me!
O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction naewords can express.