As I cam in by our gate-end,
As day was waxen weary,
O wha cam tripping down the street
But bonnie Peg, my dearie!

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete,
Wi' nae proportion wanting,
The queen of love did never move
Wi' motion mair enchanting.

Wi' linked hands we took the sands
Adown yon winding river;
And, oh! that hour, and broomy bower,
Can I forget it ever! —
Caetera desunt.