There's Auld Rob Morris
that wons in yon glen,
He's the King o' gude fellows,
and wale o' auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers,
he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonie lass,
his dautie and mine.
She's fresh as the morning,
the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning
amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless
as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart
as the light to my e'e.
But oh! she's an Heiress,
auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought
but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna
hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide
that will soon be my dead.
The day comes to me,
but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me,
but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane l
ike a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart
it wad burst in my breast.
O had she but been
of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop'd
she wad smil'd upon me!
O how past descriving
had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction
nae words can express.