Her father soon a letter wrote
And sent it on to Fyvie,
To tell his daughter was bewitched
By his servant Andrew Lammie.
Then up the stair his trumpeter
He called soon and shortly,
Pray tell me soon what’s this you’ve done
To Tifty’s bonny Annie.
Woe be to the Mill of Tifty’s pride,
For it has ruined many—
They’ll not have’t said that she should wed
The Trumpeter of Fyvie.
In wicked art I had no part,
Nor therein am I canny;
True love alone the heart has won
Of Tifty’s bonny Annie.
Where will I find a boy so kind
That will carry a letter canny;
Who will run to Tifty’s town—
Give it to my love Annie.
Tifty he has daughters three,
Who all are wondrous bonny—
But ye’ll ken her o’er a’ the rest—
Give that to bonny Annie.
It’s up and down in Tifty’s glen
Where the burn runs clear and bonny,
There wilt thou come and I’ll attend,
My love I long to see thee.
