No kind of vice e’er stained my life,
Or hurt my virgin honour:
My youthful heart was won by love,
But death will me exoner.
Her mother then she made her bed,
And laid her face to Fyvie
Her tender heart it soon did break,
And never saw Andrew Lammie.
Lord Fyvie he did wring his hands,
Said, alas! for Tifty’s Annie;
The fairest flower cut down by him,
That ever sprung in Fyvie.
Woe be to Mill of Tifty’s pride,
He might have let them marry,
I should have given both to live,
Into the lands of Fyvie.
Her father sorely now laments,
The loss of his dear Annie,
And wishes he had given consent
To wed with Andrew Lammie.
Whe Andrew home from Edinburgh came,
With muckle grief and sorrow;
My love is dead for me to-day,
I’ll die for her tomorrow.
Now I will run to Tifty’s den.
Where the burn runs clear and honny
With tears I’ll view the brig of Shigh,
Where I parted with my Annie.
