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When o'er the hill the eastern star |
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Tells bughtin time is near, my jo, |
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And owsen frae the furrow'd field |
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Return sae dowf and weary O; |
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Down by the burn, where birken buds |
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Wi' dew are hangin clear, my jo, |
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I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, |
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My ain kind Dearie O. |
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At midnight hour, in mirkest glen, |
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I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O, |
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If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, |
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My ain kind Dearie O; |
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Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, |
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And I were ne'er sae weary O, |
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I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, |
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My ain kind Dearie O. |
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The hunter lo'es the morning sun; |
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To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; |
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At noon the fisher seeks the glen |
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Adown the burn to steer, my jo: |
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Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, |
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It maks my heart sae cheery O, |
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To meet thee on the lea-rig, |
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My ain kind Dearie O. |
