As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi’ her flittin’,
Fare ye weel, Lucy! was ilka bird’s sang;
She heard the craw sayin ’t, high on the tree sittin’,
And Robin was chirpin ’t the brown leaves amang.
O what is’t that pits my puir heart in a flutter?
And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee?
If I wasna ettled to be ony better,
Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I ’m just like a lammie that loses its mither,
Nae mither nor frien’ the poor lammie can see;