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 In summer days, on flowery braes, when frisky is the ewe and lamb, We row you in my tartin plaid, then be your rantin highlandman.

words sae smart, gaed to my heart, and fain I wad ha’e gi’en my hand, out durstna, least my mother should dislike a rantin highlandman. out I expect be will come back; and tho’ my kin wad swear an ban’ I’ll n’er the hill, or he will, wi’ my young rantin highlandman.

O fare you well my own true-love, O farewell for a while, But I’ll be sure to return back again, if I go ten thousand miles, my dear, if I go ten thousand miles.

Ten thousand miles is a long way! when you are from me gone; You’ll leave me here to lament and cry, but you ne’er can hear my moan.

To hear your man, Love, I cannot bear, nor cure you of your disease, But I’ll be sure to return back again, when all friends will be pleas’d.