Come under my plaidie (1819)/On a bonny day when the heather was blooming

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THE LASS O' GLENSHEE.

On a bonny day when the heather was blooming
⁠And the silent hill burn'd wi' the sore laden'd bee,
I met a fair maid as I homeward was riding,
⁠Herding her sheep on the hill of Glenshee.

The rose in her cheek it was gem'd wi a dimple,
⁠And blythe were the blinks o' her bonny black e'e,
Her face so enchanting so neat and so handsome
⁠My heart soon belonged to the Lass of Glenshee.

I kiss'd and carress'd, and said my dear lassie,
⁠If ye would but go to St Johnstoun with me,
None of the fair should walk on the causeway,
⁠With cleading more fine than the Lass of Glenshee.

A carriage of pleasure you shall hae to ride in.
⁠And fouk shall say Mem when they speak unto thee;
Servants you shall hae for to do your biddin,
⁠I'll make you my lady, the Lass of Glenshee

It is muck me mae male wi' your carriage to ride in,
Nor think that your grandeur I value a flee,
I would think myseif happy wi; a coatie of plaiden,
⁠Wi' an innocent herd on the hills of Glenshee.

Believe me, dear lassie; Caledoida's clear waters
⁠May alter their course and run back from the sea,
Her brave hardy sons submit to be in fetters,
⁠But cease and believe not such baseness in me.

The lark may forget to rise in the morning,
⁠The spring may forget to revive on the lea,
But never will I while my senses govern me,
⁠Forget to be kind to the Lass o' Glenshee.

O let me alone for I'm sure I would blunder,
⁠And sit all the gentry a-laughing at me,
They are book-taught in manners, baith auld young,
⁠But we ken but little of that in Glenshee.

They wou'd say look ye at him wi' his, highland lady;
⁠Set up for a sale in a window so high,
Rolled up like a witch in a handy spun plaidie,
⁠And pointing towards the Lass of Glenshsee.

Do not dream of sic stories, but come up behind me,
⁠Ere Phoebus go round my Sweet beide thou shalt be,
This night in my arms I'll daut you sae kindly,
⁠She smiled and consented, I took her wi me.

Now years hae gane round since we hae busked together
⁠And seasons hae changed, but nae changes wi me
She's always as gay as the fine summer weather
⁠When the sun's at his height on the hills of Glenshee.

To meet wi' my Jeanie away I would venture,
⁠She's sweet as the echo that rings o er the lee
She's spotless and pure as the robes in the winter
⁠When laid out to bleach on the hills of Glenshee