AS I was a-wandring ae morning in spring,
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing;
And as he was singin, thir words he did say,
Theres nae life like the ploughmans in the month o sweet May.
The lavrock in the morning shell rise frae her nest,
And mount i the air wi the dew on her breast,
And wi the merry ploughman shell whistle and sing,
And at night shell return to her nest back again.
