When o'er the hill the eastern star
  Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrowed field
  Return sae dowf and weary O:
Down by the burn where scented birks
  Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
  My ain kind Dearie O.

At midnight hour, in mirkest glen,
  I'd rove and ne'er be irie O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
  My ain kind Dearie O:
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wet,
  And I were n'er sae weary O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,
  My ain kind Dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
  To rouse the mountain deer, my jo,
At noon the fisher takes the glen,
  Adown the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey,
  It maks my heart sae cheary O
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
  My ain kind Dearie O.