The blae-berry banks now are lonesome and dreary, O,
Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O,
Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O,
The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O.
He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen,
He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen,
He pu'd me the rowan frae the wild steep sae giddy, O,
Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O.
Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my doggie, O,
Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, O;
Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and my daddie, O,
I will lea' you a' for my dear Highland laddie, O.
The Mason Laddie.
[Tune, "Sandy ower the lea."]
Leaning ower a window, and looking ower a mound,
I spied a mason laddie, wha gave my heart a wound;
A wound, and a wound, and a deadly wound gave he;
And I wad wash his apron an he wad fancy me.
I winna ha'e the minister, for a' his many books
I winna ha'e the dominie, for a' his wylie looks;
I will ha'e nane o' the twa, though they wad fancy me;
But my bonnie mason laddie he bears awa' the gree.
I winna ha'e the mautman, for a' his muckle sho'el,
Nor will I ha'e the miller, for a' his mity meal,
I wad ha'e nane o' thae twa, though they wad fancy me;
For my bonnie mason laddie he's up the scaffold hie.
I winna ha'e the ploughman, that gangs at the pleuch;
Nor yet will I the chaplain, though he has gear eneuch;
I wad ha'e nane o' thae twa, though they wad fancy me;
For my bonnie mason laddie has stown the heart frae me.
I winna ha'e the souter, that rubs upon the shoon;
Nor yet will I the weaver, that gingles on the loom;
I wad ha'e nane o' thae twa, though they wad fancy me;
For my bonnie mason laddie he bears awa' the gree.
The smith that canna lay an axe is no a man o' craft;
The wright that canna seam a deal can scarcely lay a laft.
The lad that canna kiss a lass is no a lad for me;
But my bonnie mason laddie he can do a' the three.
