Now wat ye wha I met yestreen,
Coming down the street, my jo?
My mistress, in her tartan screen,
Fou' bonny, braw, and sweet, my jo.
My dear, (quoth I,) thanks to the night,
That never wish'd a lover ill;
Since ye 're out of your mother's sight,
Let 's tak a wauk up to the hill.

O Katy! wiltu gang wi' me,
And leave the dinsome town a while?
The blossom 's sprouting frae the tree,
And a' the summer 's gawn to smile;
The mavis, nightingale, and lark,
The bleeting lambs, and whistling hynd,
In ilka dale, green, shaw, and park,
Will nourish health, and glad ye'r mind.

Soon as the clear goodman of day
Does bend his morning draught of dew,
We 'll gae to some burn-side and play,
And gather flow'rs to busk ye'r brow.
We 'll pou the daizies on the green,
The lucken gowans frae the bog;
Between hands now and then we 'll lean,
And sport upo' the velvét fog.

There 's up into a pleasant glen,
A wee piece frae my father's tower,
A canny, saft, and flow'ry den,
Which circling birks has form'd a bower:
Whene'er the sun grows high and warm,
We 'll to the cawler shade remove;
There will I lock thee in mine arms,
And love and kiss, and kiss and love.