Fareweel, ye bughts, an' all your ewes,
An' fields whare bIoomin' heather grows;
Nae mair the sportin' lambs I'll see
Since my true love's forsaken me.
Nae mair I'll hear wi' pleasure sing
The cheerfu' lav'rock in the Spring,
But sad in grief now I maun mourn,
Far, far frae her, o'er Logan-burn.
Alas! nae mair we'll meetings keep
At bughts, whan herds ca' in their sheep;
Nae mair amang the threshes green
We'll row, where we hae aften been.
Nae mair for me , ye vi'lets blaw,
Or lilies whiter than the snaw;
Nae mair your pleasures I can bear,
While I am absent frae my dear.
I ken the cause of my hard fate;
In courtin' her I was too blate;
I never kiss'd my lass at a'
But when we met an' gaed awa'.
Oh could my tears again bring back
The days now past, I'd no' be slack
For ev'ry kiss she got before
I wad gie to her now a score.
O fortune I wad you favour me
In some snug corner her to see.
My heart I wad to her reveal,
An' in her arms my pardon seal.
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