The Bonnie Scotch Lass.
[Evan M'Coll.—Tune, "Roderick Mhic Alpain Dubh."—Here first printed.]
Ye maidens of England, O who can surpass ye
In a' that is innocent, gracefu', or fair?
I ken but o' ane,—she's my ain loving lassie,
The bonnie Scotch lass wi' the bricht gowden hair.
What though, for your silkens, she gangs in her plaidie,
What though that her dad has nae tocher to spare,
Yet rich were her lover an' blest, should his bride be
The bonnie Scotch lass wi' the bricht gowden hair.
What though I've nae courage to tell her my wishes,
For fear she'll deny—still I winna despair,
Sae lang as to see me looks downward and blushes
The bonnie Scotch lass wi' the bricht gowden hair.
O when shall it be that, accepted an' lo'esome,
I'll tell to my lov'd one how much she's my care?
O, when as my ain shall I strain to my bosom
The bonnie Scotch lass wi' the bright gowden hair?