His teeth with ſnow-drops may compare,
his breath with new-mown hay;
He’s bonnieſt where the bonny come,
and baith can ſing and ſay:
Gang down the burn, my Meg, he cry’d,
Gang down the burn wi’ me,
I kenzd what he’d be at, and ſaid,
I winna gang wi’ thee.
If to the wimpling burnie I,
ſoon go to waſh my claiths,
The bonny lad his winſome flute
tunes o’or the neighbouring braes;
At e’en, as hame I do return,
frae milking mither’s ky,
He’ll tak my leglen o’er the bent,
and lilt ſae blithſomely,
Gang down the burn, my Meg, he cry’d,
Gang down the burn wi’ me:
I ken’d what he’d be at, and ſaid:
I winna gang wi’ thee.
If ewes ſhou’d ſtray he’ll hound his dog,
and fetch them frae the glen;
He’ll tent the weathers to the trowe,
and bring my lambkins ben;
He’ll buy me ribbon-knots ſa ⟨fine⟩,
and prin them to my breaſt;
He’ll kiſs ſae ſweet and ſighing vow,
