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 Are nought to me when gann to thee, Sweet lass o' Ararteenie.

Yon mossy rosebud down the howe, Just op'ning fresh an' bonny, It blinks beneath the hazle bough, An's scarcely seen by ony: See sweet amidst her native hills, Obscurely blooms my Jeany, Mair fair an' gay than rosy May, The flow'r o' Aranteenie,

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, Give me but this, my soul's first wish, The lass o' Aranteenie.