3
As in the bosom o’ the stream,
The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;
So; trembling, pure, was tender love,
Within the breast o’ bonnie Jean.
And now she works her mammie’s wark,
And ay she sighs wi' grief and pain,
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.
But didna Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her e'e,
As Robin tauld a tale o' love,
Ae day upon the flowery lea.
The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove,
His cheek to hers he fond y prest,
And whisper'd thus his tale of love.
O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear,
O canst thou think to fancy me?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me?
At barn or byre thou shall na drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather bells,
And tent the waving corn wi’ me.
