There was a lass, and she was fair !
At kirk and market to be seen
When a' our fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.

And ay she wrought her country wark,
And ay she sang sae merrilie :
The blythest bird upon the bush
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys,
That bliss the little lintwhite's nest,
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a' the glen,
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down,
And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown!

As in the bosom of the stream
The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en,
So trembling pure, was tender love
Within the breast of bonnie Jean.

And now she works her country's wark,
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain,
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad make her weel again.

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her e'e,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love
Ae e'enin on the lily lea?

While monie a bird sang sweet o' love,
And monie a flower blooms o'er the dale,
His cheek to hers he aft did lay,
And whisper'd thus his tender tale: —

“O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear.
O, can'st thou think to fancy me ?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee,
But stray amang the heather bells,
And tent the waving corn wi' me.”

Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had na will to say him na !
At length she blushd a sweet consent,
And love was ay between them twa.