Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,
 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
  And i'll awa to Nanie, O.

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill;
  The night's baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid an' out I'll steal,
  An' owre the hill to Nanie, O.

My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young;
  Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O :
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
  That wad beguile my Nanie, O.

Her face is fair, her heart is true;
  As spotless as she's bonie, O,
The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
  Nae purer is than Nanie, O.

 ... 

Our auld guidman delights to view
  His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
  An' has nae care but Nanie, O.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by;
  I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O;
Nae ither care in life have I,
  But live, an' love my Nanie, O.