The Book of Scottish Song/The Lea Rig
The Lea Rig.
[The first two stanzas of this song are by the ill-fated Robert Fergusson: the others are by the late Mr. William Reid, bookseller in Glasgow, who was sometimes fortunate in the additions he made to popular ditties.]
Will ye gang o'er the lee rig,
My ain kind dearie, O;
And cuddle there fu' kindly,
Wi' me, my kind dearie, O!
At thorny bush, or birken tree,
We'll daff, and never weary, O;
They'll scug ill een frae you and me,
My ain kind dearie, O.
Nae herds wi' kent or colly there,
Shall ever come to fear ye, O;
Bat laverocks whistling in the air
Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O.
While ithers herd their lambs and ewes,
And toil for warld's gear, my jo,
Upon the lee my pleasure grows
Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O.
At gloamin', if my lane I be,
Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, O:
And mony a heavy sigh I gi'e,
When absent frae my dearie, O;
But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn,
In ev'ning fair and clearie, O,
Enraptur'd, a' my cares I scorn,
When wi' my kind dearie, O.
Whare through the birks the burnie rows,
Aft ha'e I sat fu' cheerie, O,
Upon the bonnie greensward howes,
Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O.
I've courted till I've heard the craw
Of honest Chanticleerie, O,
Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,
Whan wi' my kind dearie, O.
For though the night were ne'er sae dark,
And I were ne'er sae weary, O,
I'd meet thee on the lea rig,
My ain kind dearie, O.
While in this weary warld of wae,
This wilderness sae dreary, O,
What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae?
'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O.