Up amang yon cliffy rocks, 
Sweetly rings the rising echo, 
To the maid that tends the goats, 
Lilting o'er her native notes. 
Hark, she sings, "Young Sandy's kind, 
"An' he's promised ay to lo'e me, 
"Here's a brotch I ne'er shall tin'd, 
"Till he's fairly married to me: 
"Drive away, ye drone time, 
"An' bring about our bridal day.

"Sandy herds a flock o' sheep, 
"Aften does he blaw the whistle, 
"In a strain sae saftly sweet, 
"Lammies listening dare nae bleat; 
"He's as fleet's the mountain roe, 
"Hardy as the Highland heather, 
"Wading through the winter snow, 
"Keeping ay his flock together; 
"But a plaid, wi' bare houghs, 
"He braves the bleakest norlin blast.

"Brawly he can dance and sing 
"Canty glee, or Highland cronach; 
"Nane can ever match his fling
"At a reel, or round a ring; 
"Wightly can he wield a rung
"In a brawl he's ay the bangster 
"A' his praise can ne'er be sung 
"By the langest winded sangster. 
"Sangs that sing o' Sandy, 
"Come short, though they were e'er sae lang."