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 Now the plantin’ taps are ting’d wi’ goud, on yon burn side, And gloamin’ draws her foggy shroud, o’er yon burn side, Far frae the noisy scene, I’ll thro’ the fields alane, There we’ll meet, my ain dear Jean! down by yon burn side.



Let us go, lassie go To the Braes of Balquhither, Where the blae-berries grow ’Mang the bonnie highland heather; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang summer day On the braes o’ Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bow’r By the clear siller fountain, And I’ll cover it o’er Wi’ the flowers o’ the mountain; I’ll range thro’ the wilds, And the steep glens so dreary, And return wi’ their spoils To the bow’r o’ my dearie.