The buckles o’ the marygold—
Come smile, sweetheart, your fill!”
“Young man, ye’ve shapit a weed for me
Amang the simmer flouirs;
Now I will shape anither for thee
Amang the winter showirs.
“The snaw so white shall be your shirt,
It becomes your body best;
The cold east wind shall wrap your heid,
And the cold rain on your breist.