Now wat ye wha I met yestreen,
Coming down the street, my jo?
My mistress in her tartan screen,
Fu' bonny, braw, and sweet, my jo.
My dear, quoth I, thanks to the night,
That never wish'd a lover ill;
Since ye're out of your mother's sight,
Let's tak a walk up to the hill.

There's up into a pleasant glen,
A wee piece frae my father's tow'r,
A canny, saft, and flow'ry den,
Where circling birks have formed a bow'r:
Whene'er the sun grows high and warm,
We'll to that caller shade remove,
There will I lock thee in mine arm,
And breathe the tender tale of love.