The blathrie o't

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen,

A gate I fear I'll dearly rue:

I gat my death frae twa sweet een,

Twa lovely een o' bonie blue!

'Twas not her golden ringlets bright,

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew,

Her heaving bosom lily-white:

It was her een sae bonie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd,

She charm'd my soul I wist na how;

And ay the stound, the deadly wound,

Cam frae her een sae bonie blue.

But 'spare to speak, and spare to speed' -

She'll aiblins listen to my vow:

Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead

To her twa een sae bonie blue.