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.
O, lassie, art thou sleeping yet?
Or are you waking I would wit:
For love has bound me hand and foot,
And I would fain be in, jo.
O, let me in this ae night.
This ae, ae, ae night,
O, let me in this ae night.
And I'll ne'er come back again, jo.
The morn it is the term-day,
I maun away, I canna stay,
O, pity me before I gae,
And rise and let me in, jo.
O, let me in, &c.
The night it is baith cauld and weet;
The morn it will be snaw and sleet,
My shoon are frozen to my feet,
Wi' standing on the plain, jo.
O, let me in, &c.
I am the laird o' Windy-wa's,
I come na here without a cause,
And I ha'e gotten mony fa's
In coming thro' the plain, jo.
O, let me in, &c.
"My father's waking on the street,
My mither the chamber-keys does keep;
My chamber-door does chirp and cheep,
And I daurna let you in, jo.
"O, gae your ways this ae night.
This ae, ae, ae night,
O, gae your ways this ae night,
For I dauma let you in."
O, lassie, art thou sleeping yet?
Or art thou waukin', I would wit?
For love has bound me hand and foot,
And I would fain be in, jo.
O, let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, night;
For pity's sake, this ae night,
O, rise and let me in, jo.
Out ower the moss, out ower the muir,
I came this dark and drearie hour;
And here I stand without the door,
Amid the pouring storm, jo.
O, let me in, &c.
Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet;
Nae star blinks through the driving sleet;
Tak' pity on my wearie feet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.
O, let me in, &c.
The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's;
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause
O' a' my grief and pain, jo.
O, let me in, &c.
O tell na me of wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain!
Gae back the gate ye cam' again;
I winna let you in, jo.
I tell you now, this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And, ance for a', this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo.
The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand'rer pours,
Is nought to what poor she endures,
That's trusted faithless man, jo.
I tell you now, &c.
The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed;
Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo.
I tell you now, &c.
The bird that chann'd this summer day,
Is now the cruel fowler's prey;
Let witless, trusting woman say,
How aft her fates the same, jo.
I tell you now, this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night,
And, ance for a', this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo.