And your pow’s as white’s the snow,
There’s naething supple but your tongue
My bonnie Meg, my jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
I wonder what ye mean,
Ye’re flyting everlastingly—
Frae morning light till e’en.
Some folks say that ye’re failing Meg
But I scarce can think it so,
For ye flyte as weel as ere ye did,