  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 wearie O; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie O. Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae wearie O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, It maks my heart sae cheery O, To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. |
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