But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; garden
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, must not
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. death
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist, alone, ghost
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
O had she but been of a lower degree,