To yon deep mountain glen my wee lambkins I'll ca',
Where o'er the brown heather the saftest winds blaw;
And there, 'mang the broom brushes, blithely I'll sing,
Till the crags on the hill-taps fu' cheerily ring!

And then when I've herdit till fair eventide,
I'll see a bit doggie come down the hill-side;
And soon 'neath the broom, where nae body can see,
My dearie will share his gray plaidie wi' me!

He 'll ca' me his dear, and he 'll ca' me his pet—
He 'll seek but ae kiss,—and he twa-three will get:
How can I refuse thim?—my heart is sae fain
When he daunts me and ca's me his dearest—his ain!

Wi' sour, unco looks, I awhile may him tease,
And tell him that true love and falsehood are faes;
And syne, to repay him, a kiss I will gi'e,
And a press o' the hand, and a glance o' the e'e!

Rin down the glen, burnie—rin saftly alang—
Adown the glen, burnie, wi' you I'll no gang;
At gloaming I'll meet him, and cannily he
Will guide to the fauld my wee lammies and me.