THERE was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk or market to be seen;
When a our fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonie Jean.
And aye she wrought her mammies wark,
And aye she sang sae merrilie;
The blythest bird upon the bush
Had neer a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhites nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.
He gaed wi Jeanie to the tryste,
He dancd wi Jeanie on the down;
And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown!
As in the bosom of the stream,
The moon-beam dwells at dewy een;
So trembling, pure, was tender love
Within the breast of bonie Jean.
And now she works her mammies wark,
And aye she sighs wi care and pain;
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad make her weel again.
But did na Jeanies heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her ee,
As Robie tauld a tale o love
Ae eening on the lily lea?
The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to hers he fondly laid,
And whisperd thus his tale o love:
O Jeanie fair, I loe thee dear;
O canst thou think to fancy me,
Or wilt thou leave thy mammies cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi me?
At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi me.
Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blushd a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.
