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Lord Fyvie he did wring his hands,
Said, Alas! for Tifty’s Annie;
The fairest flower cut down by him,
That ever sprung in Fyvie.
Woe be to Mill of Tifty’s pride,
He might have let them marry;
I should have given both to live
Within the lands of Fyvie.
Her father sorely now laments
The loss of his dear Annie;
And wishes he had given consent
To wed with Andrew Lammie.
When Andrew hame frae Edinburgh came
With muckle grief and sorrow—
My love is dead for me to-day,
I’ll die for her to-morrow.
Now I will run to Tifty’s den,
Where the burn runs clear and bonnie—
With tears I’ll view the brig of Shigh,
Where I parted with my Annie.
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