O Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
  They are twa bonie lasses,
They biggit a bower on yon burn brae
  And theekit it o'er wi' rashes.

Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen,
  And thought I ne'er could alter:
But Mary Gray's twa pawky een,
  Soon gar my fancy falter.

Now Bessy's hair's like a lint-tap;
  She smiles like a May morning.
When Phoebus starts frae Thetis' lap,
  The hills with rays adorning:

White is her neck, saft is her hand,
  Her waist and feet's fu' genty;
With ilka grace she can command;
  Her lips, O wow! they're dainty.

And Mary's locks are like the craw,
  Her een like diamond glances;
She's ay sae clean, red up and braw,
  She kills whene'er she dances:

Blythe as a kid, with wit at will,
  She blooming, tight, and tall is;
And guides her airs sae gracefu' still,
  O Jove, she's like thy Pallas.

Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
  Ye unco sair oppress us;
Our fancies jee between you twae,
  Ye are sic bonie lasses:

Waes me! for baith I canna get,
  To ane by law we're stinted;
Then I'll draw cuts, and tak' my fate,
  And be with ane contented.