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, 0. 

Doon by the burn where scented birks,

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,  

I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,  

My ain kind dearie, 0.


In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,  

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, 0, 

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,  

My ain kind dearie, O! 

Altho' the night was neler sae wild,

And I were ne'er sae weary. 0, 

I'll meet thee on the learig,  

My ain kind dearie, 0.


The hunter lo'es the morning sun,

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo,

At noon the fisher seeks the glen,

Along the burn to steer, my jo:

Gie me the hour o' gloaming grey

It maks my heart sae cheery, 0,

To meet thee on the learig, 

My ain kind dearie, O!