Gan to the kye wi' me, my love, Gan to the kye wi' me;
Over the moor and thro' the grove, I'll sing ditties to thee.
Cushie, thy pet, is lowing around her poor firstling's shed,
Tears in her eyes are flowing, because little Colly dead.
Gan to the kye wi' me my love, Gan to the kye wi' me;
Over the moor and thro' the grove, I'll sing ditties to thee. 

All the fine herd of cattle the vigilant sire possest,
After his fall in battle by rebel chieftains were prest:
Kine now is all our property, left by thy father's will;
Yet if we nurse it watchfully, we may win geer enow still.
Gan to the kye wi' me; Gan to the kye wi' me;
Over the moor and thro' the grove, I'll sing ditties to thee. 

Cushie, thy pet, is lowing around her poor firstling's shed,
Tears in her eyes are flowing, because little Colly dead.