Whaniver she gaes bi, she pits the hert agley,
Ein afore Heiven abuin, it’s her A see,
She’s o a warth at lane a King can pey,
But A’m no royaltie,
She taks nae tent o me.
Wi her dancean, aathing dances,
The hauchs an the airms,
Aathing wad cum alowe, wi thon lady,
She haes on her a grace at the ithers wadna hae,
She’s ocht A juist cudna be,
She taks nae tent o me.
Themair A cum nearder, the mair A finds it laith,
Ma ain bouk, ma ain vyce, ma ain face,
Ein wi the fen o monie men, thar mairches faas awa,
A cudna say but ours will bide for aye.
He’d hae aa the heirs an graces o the guid,
He’s a mon at’s seen the warld an unnerstuid,
He’s aa A wad be, an A juist cud.
But the weimen niver kens
O sic things, an him taakin,
She taks nae tent o me.
A boadie can chynge near aa,
An reddie for tae fecht,
But niver sicna want o richt.
Whaniver she gaes bi, she pits the hert agley,
Ein afore Heiven abuin, it’s her A see,
She’s o a warth at lane a King can pey,
Anither mon, no me,
For A’m no royaltie,
She taks nae tent o me,
taks nae tent o me.