My dear little Lassie

My dear little lassie, why, what's a' the matter?

My heart it gangs pittypat, winna lie still;

I've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better

Yet, lassie, believe me, I'm aye growing ill:

My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft when I'm speaking

I sigh, an' am breathless, an' fearfu' to speak;

I gaze aye for something I fain wad be seeking,

Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I wad seek.

Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,

And yet when to ruse ye the neebour lads try,

Though it's a' true they tell ye, yet never sae far off

I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.

When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,

And never grew wearie the lang simmer day;

The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,

And I fand sweeter scented aroun' ye the hay.

In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak' us cheerie,

'Mang the lave of the lasses I pried yere sweet mou';

Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye,

My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.

Whan we dance at the gloamin' it's you I aye pitch on,

And gin ye gang by me how dowie I be;

There's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,

That tells me my happiness centres in thee.