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That grows before the happy cot,
Where dwells sweet Annie of Woodhouselee.
I'd rise up wi' the early morn,
And hail her with my sweetest lays,
When she gangs barefoot to the burn,
To spread abread her mother's claes.
The heather blooms on Pentland hills,
The rising sun blinks o'er the sea,
While Annie breathes the fragrant gales,
On yon burnside by Woodhouselee.
Come gentle peace, thou heavenly friend,
And soother of terestrial woe,
Do thou thy olive branch extend,
Whenever love does find a foe;
Till joy and harmony unite,
And Annie’s love wi' mine agree,
Then I'll enclasp my heart’s delight,
The bonny lass of Woodhouselee.
FINIS.
