i'll meet thee on the lea rig

when o'er the hill the eastern star

tells bughtin time is near, my jo,

and owsen frae the furrow'd field

return sae dowf and weary o;

down by the burn, where birken buds

wi' dew are hangin clear, my jo,

i'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

my ain kind dearie o.

at midnight hour, in mirkest glen,

i'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, o,

if thro' that glen i gaed to thee,

my ain kind dearie o;