7
They would lay look ye at him wi’ his Highland
lady,
set up for a sale in a window so high.
Roll'd up like a witch in a hamely spun plaidie,
and pointing towards the lass o' Glenshee.
Do not dream o’ sic stories but come up behind
me.
ere Phoebus goes round my sweet bride thou
shalt be.
This night in my arms I’ll doat you sae kindly,
she smil’d and consented, I took her wi' me.
Now years hae gone round since we busked together,
and seasons have changed, but nae changes wi'
me.
She’s ay as gay as the fine summer weather,
when Boreas blaws shrill on the hills o' Glenshee.
To meet wi' my Jeanie away I would venture,
she's sweet as the echoes 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 o' Glenshee.
FINIS.
