Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,
   There 's o'er mony wooin at her,
[ Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,
   There 's o'er mony wooin at her.]1
 Wooin at her, pu'in at her,
   Courtin at her, canna get her:
 Filthy elf, it 's for her pelf,
   That a' the lads are wooin at her.

 Ten cam east, and ten cam west,
   Ten came rowin o'er the water;
 Twa came down the lang dyke side,
   There 's twa and thirty wooin at her.
     Wooin at her, pu'in at her...

 There 's seven but, and seven ben,
   Seven in the pantry wi' her;
 Twenty head about the door,
   There 's ane and forty wooin at her.
     Wooin at her, pu'in at her...

 She 's got pendles in her lugs,
   Cockle-shells wad set her better;
 High-heel'd shoon and siller tags,
   And a' the lads are wooin at her.
     Wooin at her, pu'in at her...

 Be a lassie e'er sae black,
   An she hae the name o' siller,
 Set her upo' Tintock-tap,
   The wind will blaw a man till her.
     Wooin at her, pu'in at her...

 Be a lassie e'er sae fair,
   An she want the pennie siller;
 A flie may fell her in the air,
   Before a man be even till her.
     Wooin at her, pu'in at her...