My cave wad be a lover’s bower,
Tho’ raging winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.
VI.
O sweet is she in yon town,
Yon sinkin sun’s gane down upon;
A fairer than’s in you town
His setting beam ne’er shone upon.
VII.
If angry fate is sworn my foe,
And suffering I am doom’d to bear;
I careless quit aught else below,
But spare me—spare me, Lucy dear!
VIII.
For while life’s dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne’er depart,
And she—as fairest is her form!
She has the truest, kindest heart!
O, wat ye wha’s in yon town,
Ye see the e’enin sun upon?
The fairest dame’s in yon town
That e’enin sun is shining on.