Hush, ye rude breezes

Hush, hush, ye rude breezes, my Harry is comin',

Nor aim at my lover the blasts that ye blaw,

For he'd come to my arms, though the burn it was foamin',

In winter or summer, thro' sleet or thro' snaw.

He hears not, nor fears not your blustering thunder,

But thinks his dear lassie how soon he shall see;

And oh! may rude fate never cast us asunder,

Nor blast all the hopes of my Harry and me.

My Harry is blythsome, my Harry is cheerie,

Wi' him ilk thing round me looks bonnie and braw;

But ilk thing aroun' me looks darksome and drearie,

If e'er he gaes frae me, or turns to gae 'wa.

Lang ha'e I lo'ed him, an' never, O never,

Can I think my dear laddie for ever to lea';

But if 'tis our fate that death should us sever,

One grave shall receive both my Harry and me.