For whae could yon sweet lassie be
That lauch’t at that aul’ carlin’ scaul’in’?
’Twas plain, I’ve said afore, to see
That cot-hoose couldna be her dwallin’.
How cam’ she to be wonnin’ there
I’ that aul’ muirlan’ clay-wa’t biggin?
How could a gem sae bricht an’ rare
Be treasur’t ’neath its crazy riggin’?
It’s mair nor therty year sin syne—
That maiden’s aiblins now a grannie—