An' though that Maggie saw him lay His lugs in bawthron's coggie, She wi' the besom lounged poor chit, And syne she clapp'd my doggie. Sae weel do I this kindness feel, Though Mag she isna bonnie, An' though she 's feckly twice my age, I lo'e her best of ony.
May not this simple ditty show, How oft affection catches, And from what silly sources, too, Proceed unseemly matches; An' eke the lover he may see, Albeit his joe seem saucy, If she is kind unto his dog, He 'll win at length the lassie.
On this unfrequented plain, What can gar thee sigh alane, Bonnie blue-eyed lassie? Is thy mammy dead and gane, Or thy loving Jamie slain? Wed anither, mak nae main, Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
Though I sob and sigh alane, I was never wed to ane, Quo' the blue-eyed lassie. But if loving Jamie's slain, Farewell pleasure, welcome pain, A' the joy wi' him is gane O' poor hapless Jessie.
Ere he cross'd the raging sea, Was he ever true to thee, Bonnie, blooming Jessie? Was he ever frank and free? Swore he constant aye to be? Did he on the roseate lea Ca' thee blooming Jessie?
Ere he cross'd the raging sea, Aft he on the dewy lea, Ca'd me blue-eyed lassie. Weel I mind his words to me, Were, if he abroad should die, His last throb and sigh should be, Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
Far frae hame, and far frae thee, I saw loving Jamie die, Bonnie blue-eyed lassie. Fast a cannon ball did flee, Laid him stretch'd upo' the lea, Soon in death he closed his e'e, Crying, "Blooming Jessie."
Swelling with a smother'd sigh, Rose the snowy bosom high Of the blue-eyed lassie. Fleeter than the streamers fly, When they flit athwart the sky, Went and came the rosy dye On the cheeks of Jessie.
Longer wi' sic grief oppress'd Jamie couldna sae distress'd See the blue-eyed lassie. Fast he clasp'd her to his breast, Told her a' his dangers past, Vow'd that he would wed at last Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
I 've loved thee, old Scotia, and love thee I will, Till the heart that now beats in my bosom is still. My forefathers loved thee, for often they drew Their dirks in defence of thy banners of blue; Though murky thy glens, where the wolf prowl'd of yore, And craggy thy mountains, where cataracts roar, The race of old Albyn, when danger was nigh, For thee stood resolved still to conquer or die.