MY laddie 's a' the world to me!
'T is to himself I owe it
That I can never more gae free;
But, ah!—he must not know it!
When from my side he roams awa',
I scarce believe I'm living;
But when he's here—my laddie!—ah,
I die for want of giving!
Why must I think upon his smile?—
His eyes o'er bright and bonny?—
His gladness that doth sae beguile
It robs my heart of ony?
Were I a lad, and he a maid,
I would na be sae winning;
To wound too deep I'd be afraid,
And deem such sweetness sinning!