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The faireſt flower's cut down by love,
that ever ſprung in Fyvie
Woe be to Mill o' Tiftie's pride,
he might have let them marry,
I ſhould have given both to live,
into the lands of Fyvie.
Her father ſurely now laments
the loss of his dear Annie,
And wiſhes he had given conſent
to wed with Andrew Lammie.
But now alas it was too late,
for be connot recal her.
Thro' life unhappy is his fate,
becauſe he did controul her.
When Andrew home from Edinburgh came
with meikle grief and ſorrow,
My love is dead tor me to day,
I'll die for her the morrow,
Now I will on to Fyvie's den,
where the ⟨burn⟩ runs clear and bonny,
With texts I'll view the briggs of Sheugh
where I parted laſt with Annie,
Then will I ſpeed to the church yary,
to the green church yard of Fyvie,
With tears I'll water my love's gr.ve,
till I follow Tiftie's Annie.
Ye parents grave, who children have,
in cruſhing them be canny,
Leſt when too late ye do repent
remember Tiftie's Annie
FINIS.
