8
No kind of vice e'er stain'd 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 love,
That ever sprang in Fyvie.
Woe be to Mill of Tifty's pride,
He might have let them marry,
I should have given them both to live
Into the lands of Fyvie.
Her father sorely now laments
The loss of his dear Annie,
And wishes he bad given consent,
To wed with Andrew Lammie.
When Andrew home from Edinburgh came,
With muckle grief and sorrow,
My love is dead for me to-day.
I'll die for her to-morrow.
Now I will run to Tifty's den,
Where the burn runs clear and bonny
With tears I'll view the brig of Shigh,
Where I parted from my Annie.
FINIS.
