What beauties does Flora disclose,
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed! 
Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed. 

No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,
Not all the gay flowers of the field, 
Nor Tweed gliding gently through those,
Such beauty and pleasure can yield.

'Tis she does the virgins excel, 
No beauty with her can compare;
Love's graces around her do dwell, 
She's fairest where thousands are fair.

Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray? 
Oh! tell me at noon where they feed;
Shall I seek them on sweet-winding Tay? 
Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?