“It’s dowie in the hint o’ hairst.
At the wa’-gang o’ the swallow,
When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,
An’ the wuds are hingin’ yellow;
But oh, it’s dowier far to see
The wa’-gang o’ her the heart gangs wi’,
The dead-set o’ a shinin’ e’e.
That darkens the weary warld on thee.
“There was meikle love atween us twa—
Oh, twa could ne’er be fonder;