Doon by the burn an' owre the lea,
And cross the Ford beside the Mill;
For there the Miller's lass may be—
The lass that sets my hert a-thrill.

She kens na o' the thocht I hae,
Nor does she mark the look I gie
As I gang by maist daily day
In hope her een may glint on me.

But aye she 's eident, oot or in,
An' wi' a heid that 's carrit high—
For ocht o' me she micht be blin'!
An' deil cares she for loons that sigh.

She minds me o' the lichtsome Deer—
As swank o' hip an' ankle clean;
An' gin I had as muckle gear
As I hae spunk, I'd daur her een!

But lass, tho' I 'm a Plooman chiel
An' whiles wi' dub am clortit sair,
I've strength o' hert an' thews o' steel
An' may hae wit wi' you to pair.

For you I 'd face Life's dourest brae
And upward, desp'rate mak' to speel:
Wi' you at hame to croon the day,
O' wha the thraws o' strife could feel!

Sae I 'll bide keen baith morn an' nicht—
To love ae day the Fates bring chance—
Gin I 've the fire she 'll see the licht:
The Miller than may gang to France.