3
Nothing she said, but sighing sore,
O woe for bonnie Annie;
She dorst not own her heart was won
By the trumpeter of Fyvie.
When night came all went to their bed,
They all slept soon beside her
Love so oppressed her tender breast,
Pure love will waste her body.
Love comes in at my bed side,
Sweet love lies down beyond me,
Love so disturbs my nightly rest,
Wi’ the thoughts of bonnie Lammie.
The first time me and my love,
Was in the woods of Fyvie,
His lovely form, and speech so soft,
Soon gain’d my heart entirely.
He called me mistress, I said no,
I’m Tiftie's bonny Annie;
With apples sweet, he did me treat,
With kisses soft and many.
It’s up and down in Tiftie’s den,
Where the burn rins clear and bonnie,
I’ve often gone to meet my love,
By the bonnie banks of Fyvie.
But now, alas her father heard,
That the trumpeter of Fyvie,
Had had the art to gain the heart
Of Mill of Tifties Daughter.
