I ha'e been courting at a lass,
These twenty days and mair;
Her father winna gi'e me her,
She's sic a gleib of gear;
But gin I had her where I wou'd,
Amang the hether here,
I'd strive to win her kindness
For a' the miller's care.

For she's a bonny, sonsy lass,
An armsfu', I swear;
I wou'd marry her without a coat,
Or e'er a plack o' gear;
For, trust me, when I saw her first,
She ga'e me sic a wound,
That a' the doctors i' the earth
Can never mak me sound.

For when she's absent frae my sight,
I think upon her still,
And when I sleep, or when I wake,
She does my senses fill;
May heaven guard the bonny lass,
That sweetens a' my life,
And shame fa' me gin e'er I seek
Anither for my wife.