Page:Heaving of the lead.pdf/5

 Yon messy rose-bud down the howe,

Just op'ning fresh and bonny,

Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,

An's scarcely seen by ony;

Sae, sweet amidst her native hills,

Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,

Mair fair and gay than rosy May,

The flow'r o' Arranteenie.

Now from the mountain's lofty brow

I view the distant ocean;

There av'rice guides the bounding prow

Ambition courts promotion.

Let Fortune pour her golden store,

Her laurel'd favours many;

Gie me but this, my soul's first wish,

The Lass o’ Arranteenie.





Cauld blaws the win' frae north to south

And drift is driving sairly;

The sheep are couring i' the height,

O sirs! it’s winter fairly.

Now up in the morning’s no for me,

Up in the morning early;