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8
I'd run to thee, my Johnny dear,
Nor stop at bog nor dyke.
But custom's sic a powerfu' thing,
Men aye maun hae their will,
While many a bonny lassie sits
And sighs each day her fill.
But whisht I hear my Johnny’s foot,
Ay that's his very slog
He steeks the fa yett saftly tu,
O hang that colly dog.
And now for routh o' sugar'd words,
And kisses not a few,
O but this world's a paradise,
When lovers do prove true.
FINIS.
