(3)
Our hills they are bonny when the heather’s in bloom,
It would cheer a fine fancy in the month of June,
To pull the blaeberries and carry them home,
And set them on your table when December comes on.
Out spake her father that saucy old man,
You might have chosen a mistress among your own clan,
Its but poor entertainment for our lowland dames,
To promise them berries on wild heather bleems.
If I had chosen a mistress among my own clan,
I would never have asked a word of your daughter good man,
As for her entertainment I tell you no lie,
She shall just share as I do if she go with me.
Kilt up your green plaidie, walk over yon hill,
For a sight of your highland face does me much ill,
For I will wed my daughter and spare pennies too,
to whom my heart pleases and what’s that to you.
My plaid it is broad, it has colours anew,
Good man for your kindness I’ll leave it with yon,
I have got a warm cordial keeps a’ cold from me.
The blithe blinks of love from your daughter’s eye.
My flocks they are thin, and my lodging but bare,
And you that has meikle the more you can spare,
