O blessings on my wee thing,
My kindly blythesome wee thing,
With the hand and heart o' my wee thing,
My lot will be almost divine.
In Roslin's fairest bower,
I'll shelter this sweet flower,
Nae blast nor sleety shower
Shall blight this rose of mine.
 
I doat on ilka feature
Of this dear artless creature,
This darling child of Nature,
More precious than light to my eye.
In vain I've roam'd for pleasure,
Through follies without measure;
But now I've found a treasure
Too rich for a king to buy.