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, the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom,
The broom of the Cowdenknows;
I wish I were at hame again,
Milking my daddy's ewes.
How blythe ilk morn was I to see
My swain come o'er the hill!
He skipt the burn, and flew to me,
I met him wi' good will.
O, the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom,
The broom of the Cowdenknows!
I wish I were wi' my dear swain,
Wi' his pipe, and my ewes.
I neither wanted ewe nor lamb,
While his flocks near me lay;
He gather'd in my sheep at night,
And cheer'd me a' the day.
O, the broom, &c.
He tuned his pipe and reed sae sweet,
The birds stood list'ning by;
Ev'n the dull cattle stood and gazed,
Charm'd wi' his melody.
O, the broom, &c.
While thus we spent our time by turns,
Betwixt our flocks and play,
I envied not the fairest dame,
Though e'er so rich and gay.
O, the broom, &c.
Hard fate! that I should banish'd be,
Gang heavily, and mourn,
Because I loved the kindest swain
That ever yet was born.
O, the broom, &c.
He did oblige me every hour;
Could I but faithfu' be?
He staw my heart; could I refuse
Whate'er he ask'd of me?
O, the broom, &c.
My doggie, and my little kit,
That held my wee soup whey,
My plaidie, broach, and crooked stick,
Maun now lie useless by.
O, the broom, &c.
Adieu, ye Cowdenknows, adieu!
Fareweel a' pleasures there!
Ye gods, restore me to my swain,
It's a' I crave or care.
O, the broom, &c.
When summer comes, the swains on Tweed
Sing their successful loves,
Around the ewes and lambkins feed,
And music fills the groves.
But my loved song is then the broom
So fair on Cowdenknows;
For sure, so sweet, so soft a bloom,
Elsewhere there never grows.
There Colin tuned his oaten reed,
And won my yielding heart;
No shepherd e'er that dwelt on Tweed,
Could play with half such art.
He sung of Tay, of Forth, and Clyde,
The hills and dales all round,
Of Leader-haughs, and Leader-side,
Oh! how I bless'd the sound.
Yet more delightful is the broom
So fair on Cowdenknows;
For sure, so fresh, so bright a bloom,
Elsewhere there never grows.
Not Tiviot braes, so green and gay,
May with this broom compare;
Not Yarrow banks in flowery May,
Nor the bush aboon Traquair.
More pleasing far are Cowdenknows,
My peaceful happy home,
Where I was wont to milk my ewes,
At e'en amang the broom.
Ye powers that haunt the woods and plains
Where Tweed and Tiviot flows,
Convey me to the best of swains,
And my loved Cowdenknows.