Scottish glory/The Lad that I Love

THE LAD THAT I LOVE.

How sweet are the flowers that grow by yon fountain,
And sweet are the cowslips that spangle the grove,
And sweet is the breeze that blows over yon mountain;
Yet none is so sweet as the lad that I love.
Then I'll weave him a garland,
A fresh flowing garland,
With lillies, and roses,
And sweet blooming posies;
A garland I'll give to the lad that I love.

It was down in the vale, where the sweet Torza gliding,
Its murmuring stream ripples through the dark grove,
I own'd what I felt, all my passion confiding,
To ease the fond sighs of the lad that I love.
Then I'll weave, &c.