This text comes from The Book of Scottish Song, edited by Alexander Whitelaw, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
A curse attends that woman's love,
Who always would be pleasing.
'They thocht to lie in Methven kirk,
Amang their noble kin;
But they maun lie on Lynedoch-brae,
To beak forenent the sun.'
O, Bessie Bell, and Mary Gray,
They were twa bonnie lasses;
They biggit a bouir on yon burn-brae,
And theekit it ower wi' rashes.
Bessie Bell I lo'ed yestreen,
And thocht I ne'er could alter;
But Mary Gray's twa pawky een
Gard a' my fancy falter.
Bessie's hair's like a lint-tap,
She smiles like a May mornin',
When Phœbus starts frae Thetis' lap,
The hills with rays adornin':
White is her neck, saft is her hand,
Her waist and feet fu' genty,
With ilka grace she can command:
Her lips, O, wow! they're denty.
Mary's locks are like the craw,
Her een like diamond's glances;
She's aye sae clean, redd-up, and braw;
She kills whene'er she dances.
Blythe as a kid, wi' wit at will,
She blooming, tight, and tall is,
And guides her airs sae gracefu' still;
O, Jove, she's like thy Pallas!
Young Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,
Ye unco sair oppress us;
Our fancies jee between ye twa,
Ye are sic bonnie lasses.
Wae's me! for baith I canna get;
To ane by law we're stentit;
Then I'll draw cuts, and tak' my fate,
And be wi' ane contentit.