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.
Go to him, then, if thou canst go;
Waste not a thought on me;
My heart and mind are a' my story—
They ance were dear to thee.
But there is music in his gold,
(I ne'er sae sweet could sing,)
That finds a chord in every breast,
In unison to ring.
The modest virtues dread the spell;
The honest loves retire;
The finer sympathies of soul
Far other charms require.
The breathings of my plaintive reed
Sink dying in despair;
The still small voice of gratitude,
Even that is heard nae mair.
But, if thy heart can suffer thee,
The powerful cause obey;
And mount the splendid bed that wealth
And pride for thee display.
There gaily bid farewell to a'
Love's trembling hopes and fears;
While I my lonely pillow, here,
Wash with unceasing tears.
Yet, in the fremmit arms of him,
That half thy worth ne'er knew,
O think na on my lang-tried love,
How tender and how true!
For sure 'twould break thy tender heart,
My breaking heart to see,
Wi' a' the wrangs and waes it tholed,
And yet maun thole for thee.