BY smooth winding Tay a swain was reclining,
Aft cry'd he, O hey! man I still live pining
Mysell thus away, and darna discover
To my bonny Hay, that I am her lover.

Nae mair it will hide, the flame waxes stranger,
If she 's not my bride, my days are nae langer;
Then I 'll take a heart, and try at a venture,
May be, ere we part, my vows may content her.

She 's fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora,
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good morrow;
The sward of the mead enamell'd with daisies,
Looks wither'd and dead when twin'd of her graces.

But if she appear where verdures invite her,
The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the sweeter:
'Tis heaven to be by when her wit is a flowing,
Her smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a glowing.

The mair that I gaze the deeper I 'm wounded,
Struck dumb with amaze, my mind is confounded;
I 'm all in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye,
For a' my desire is Hay's bonny lassie.