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 shou’d wed
The trumpeter of Fyvie.
In wicked art I had no part,
Nor therein am I canny—
True love alove 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.
Thou mayest come to the Brig of Shigh,
And there I’ll come and meet thee-
