By Oughtertyre grows the aik,
  On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonier lass
  Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.
        Blythe, blythe and merry was she,
          Blythe was she but and ben;
        Blythe by the banks of Earn,
          And blythe in Glenturit glen.
 
Her looks were like a flow'r in May,
  Her smile was like a simmer morn:
She tripped by the banks o' Earn,
  As light's a bird upon a thorn.
        Blythe, blythe, &c.
 
Her bonie face it was as meek
  As ony lamb upon a lea;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet,
  As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.
        Blythe, blythe, &c.
 
The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,
  And o'er the Lawlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blythest lass
  That ever trod the dewy green.
        Blythe, blythe, &c.