No kind of vice e’er stained my life,
Or hurt my virgin honour;
My youthful heart was won by love,
But death will me exoner.
Her mother then she made her bed,
And laid her face to Fyvie;
Her tender heart it soon did break,
And ne’er saw Andrew Lammie.
Lord Fyvie he did wring his hands,
Said, alas! for Tilly’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 name frae Edinburgh come,
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 bonny—
With tears I’ll view the brig of Shigh,
Where I parted with my Annie.
