5
While down the deep glen bawls the ſnaw-flooded fountain,
That murmur’d ſae ſweet to my laddie an’ me:
It’s no its loud roar on the wintry win’ ſwellin’,
It’s no the cauld blaſt brings the tears i’ my e’e,
For, O gin I ſaw but my bonny Scots callan,
The dark days o’ winter war’ ſimmer to me!
The Braes of Balquhither.
Let us go, laſſie, go
To the braes of Balquhither,
Where the blae-berries grow
’Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the rae,
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the land ſummer day
On the braes o’ Balquhither.
I will twine thee a bow’r
By the clear ſiller fountain,
And I’ll cover it o’er
Wi’ the flow’rs o’ the mountain;
I’ll range thro’ the wilds,
And the ſteep glens ſo dreary,
And return wi’ their ſpoils
To the bow’r o’ my dearie.
