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8
Awa, ye thoughtless murd'ring gang,
Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee!
They'll sing you yet a canty sang
Then o in pity let them be!
When winter blaws in sleety show'rs,
Frre aff the norlin' hills sae hie,
He lightly shiffs thy bonny bow'rs,
As laith to harm a flow'r in thee.
Thou ⟨bonnie⟩ &c.
Tho' fate should drag me south the line,
Or o'er the wide Atlantic ⟨sea⟩,
The happy hours I'll ever mind,
That I in youth ha'e spent in thee.
Thou bonnie, &c.
FINIS.
