i'll meet thee on the lea rig
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 o;
down by the burn, where birken buds
wi' dew are hangin clear, my jo,
i'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
my ain kind dearie o.
at midnight hour, in mirkest glen,
i'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, o,
if thro' that glen i gaed to thee,
my ain kind dearie o;