4
Her father soon a letter wrote,
He sent it on to Fyvie,
To tell his daughter was bewitched
By the trumpeter of Fyvie.
Then up the stair his trumpeter,
He called soon and shortly,
Pray tell me soon what’s this you ve done,
To Tiftie’s bonny Annie,
Woe be to Mill of Tiftie’s pride,
For it has ruined many,
They’ll not hav’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 Tiftie's bonny Annie.
Where will I find a boy so kind,
That will carry a letter canny,
Who will run to Tiftie's town,
Give it to my love Annie,
Tifty he has daughters three,
Who are all wonderous bonnie,
But ye’ll ken her o’er a’ the rest;—
Give that to bonnie Annie.
It's up and down in Tiftie’s den,
Where the burn rins clear and bonnie,
There wilt thou come, and I'll attend,
My love I long to see thee.
