Now wat ye wha I met yestreen, 
Coming thro' the broom, my jo?
My mistress, in her tartan screen, 
Fu' bonny, braw, and sweet, my jo.
My dear, quoth I, thanks to the night,
That never wish'd a lover ill, 
Since ye're out of your mither's sight,
Let's tak a wauk up to the hill.

There's up into a pleasant glen, 
A wee piece frae my father's tow'r,
A canny, saft, and flow'ry den, 
Where circling birks have form'd a bow'r;
Whene'er the sun grows high and warm, 
We'll to that cauler shade remove;
There will I lock thee in my arms, 
And love and kiss, and kiss and love.