Awake thee, my Bessy, the morning is fair,
The breath of young roses is fresh on the air,
The sun has long glanced over mountain and lake,
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.

Oh, come whilst the flowers are still wet with the dew,
I'll gather the fairest, my Bessy, for you,
The lark poureth forth his sweet strain for thy sake,
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.

The hare from her soft bed of heather hath gone,
The coote to the water already hath flown --
There is life on the mountain and joy on the lake
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.