The glancing of her apron

In lovely August last,

On Munanday at morn,

As thro' the fields I past,

To view the yellow corn:

I looked me behind,

And saw come o'er the know,

Ane glancing in her apron,

With a bonny brent brow.

I said, good morrow, fair maid,

And she, right courteouslie,

Return'd a beck, and kindly said,

"Good day, sweet sir, to thee."

I speir'd, my dear, how far awa'

Do ye intend to gae?

Quoth she, I mean a mile or twa,

And o'er yon bonny brae.

Fair maid, I'm thankfu' to my fate,

To have sic company,

For I am ganging straight that gate,

Where ye intend to be.

When we had gane a mile or twain,

I said to hir, my dow,

May wee not lean us on this plain,

And kiss your bonny mou'.