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Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery,
Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw
Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary,
And naething is seen but the wide spreading snaw.
The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie
They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee,
And chirp out their plaints seeming wae for my Johnnie,
'Tis winter with them, and 'tis winter wi' me.
Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw
Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary,
And naething is seen but the wide spreading snaw.
The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie
They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee,
And chirp out their plaints seeming wae for my Johnnie,
'Tis winter with them, and 'tis winter wi' me.
Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,
And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae,
While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain
That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.
'Tis no its loud roar in the wintry wind swellin',
'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e,
For, O gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan,
The dark days o' winter were summer to me.
And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae,
While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain
That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.
'Tis no its loud roar in the wintry wind swellin',
'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e,
For, O gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan,
The dark days o' winter were summer to me.
THE BRAES OF BALQUITHER.
Let us go, lassie, go,
To the braes o' Balquhither
Where the blae-berries grow
'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the roe,
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquither.
To the braes o' Balquhither
Where the blae-berries grow
'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the roe,
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquither.
I will twine thee a bower,
By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er
Wi' the flowers o' the mountain;
I will range thro' the wilds,
And the deep glens sae dreary,
And return wi' their spoils,
To the bow'r o' my deary.
By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er
Wi' the flowers o' the mountain;
I will range thro' the wilds,
And the deep glens sae dreary,
And return wi' their spoils,
To the bow'r o' my deary.
