Twa miles frae here, or maybe mair,
A herd's hoose sits atween twa wuds,
An' there a lassie bides as fair
An' sweet as heather purple buds.
She's just awee ayont sixteen,
An' pure as gowans on the braes;
The spring o' love is in her een,
Whose dew weets a' she thinks an' says.
An' aye, at hame or Sanquhar toon,
She hings her head sae bonnilie,
As I ha'e seen the flowers hing doon
In howms o' Kello wi' the bee.
She's tall an' stately in her mien,
Like foxglove growin' richly fair,
An' slim as some straucht hazel seen
Alang the edge o' Craigengair.
Sweet is the glint alang the West
When o'er braid Corsencon's steep heicht
The simmer sun sinks into rest,
An' Nith lies glowin' in his licht.
But sweeter is the glow o' youth
Upon her bloomin' cheek to see,
As if a rosebud, saft an' smooth,
Was there, half-blawn, to tak' the ee.
Noo, he who wins the lassie's heart,
An' tak's her frae her muirlan' cot,
Maun keep her simple life frae smart,
An' croon wi' love her happy lot.
But come what may in life's quick thrang,
Where crood together gude an' ill,
May she aye quately slip alang,
A simple, artless lassie still.