VIII.
Where soft the wee burn babbles down over there,
Full oft have I pressed these lips to my fair.
The burn it still babbles, will babble amain,
Shall lips to my fair be pressed never again!
The waves of the brook to the valley are flowing,
Where on grave of my fairest the blossoms are blowing.
IX.
Down there in the meadow they’re mowing,
And looks at my sweetheart they’re throwing;