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Poem	WHEN o’er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin time is near, my jo, And owsen frae the furrow’d field Return sae dowf and weary O; Down by the burn, where birken buds Wi’ dew are hangin clear, my jo, I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O. At midnight hour, in mirkest glen, I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie, O, If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind Dearie O; Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild, And I were ne’er sae weary O, I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O. The hunter lo’es the morning sun; To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen Adown the burn to steer, my jo: Gie me the hour o’ gloamin’ grey, It maks my heart sae cheery O, To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O.
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