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Yon messy rose-bud down the howe,
Just op'ning fresh and bonny,
Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,
An's scarcely seen by ony;
Sae, sweet amidst her native hills,
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
The flow'r o' Arranteenie.
Now from the mountain's lofty brow
I view the distant ocean;
There av'rice guides the bounding prow
Ambition courts promotion.
Let Fortune pour her golden store,
Her laurel'd favours many;
Gie me but this, my soul's first wish,
The Lass o’ Arranteenie.
UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.
Cauld blaws the win' frae north to south
And drift is driving sairly;
The sheep are couring i' the height,
O sirs! it’s winter fairly.
Now up in the morning’s no for me,
