3
I'll nae hae your head-lace but an' ye speak fair,
I'll to the kirk wi' you in ae month or mair;
Then we'll be sae happy in yonder green shade
An' I'll be your dawtie, and sit in your plaid.
Then we'll be sae happy, &c.
THE LASS O' ARANTEENIE.
Forlorn amang the Highland hills,
'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur;
By rocky dens and woody glens,
With weary steps I wander.
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are nought to me, when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass o' Aranteenie.
Yon mossy rote-bud down the howe,
Just op'ning fresh and bonny,
Blinks sweetly neath the hazle bough,
An’s scarealy seen by onie.
Sae sweet amidst her native hills,
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Marr fair an' gay than rosy May,
The flower o' Aranteenie,
