In lovely August last, 
On Munanday at morn,
As thro' the fields I past, 
To view the yellow corn:
I looked me behind, 
And saw come o'er the know,
Ane glancing in her apron,
With a bonny brent brow.

I said, good morrow, fair maid, 
And she, right courteouslie,
Return'd a beck, and kindly said, 
"Good day, sweet sir, to thee."
I speir'd, my dear, how far awa' 
Do ye intend to gae?
Quoth she, I mean a mile or twa, 
And o'er yon bonny brae.

Fair maid, I'm thankfu' to my fate, 
To have sic company,
For I am ganging straight that gate, 
Where ye intend to be.
When we had gane a mile or twain, 
I said to hir, my dow,
May wee not lean us on this plain, 
And kiss your bonny mou'.