The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e’en.
My book o’ grace I’ll try to read,
Tho’ con’d wi’ little skill;
When colley barks, I’ll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.
Oh no! ’tis nae so!
The time will ne’er be gane!
The shadow of the trysting-bush
Is fix’d like ony stane.