Yestreen

  i gaed a waefu' gate yestreen
  i gaed a waefu' gate yestreen,
  a gate, i fear, i'll dearly rue;
  i gat my death frae twa sweet een,
  twa lovely een o'bonie blue.
  'twas not her golden ringlets bright,
  her lips like roses wat wi' dew,
  her heaving bosom, lily-white—
  it was her een sae bonie blue.
  she talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd;
  she charm'd my soul i wist na how;
  and aye the stound, the deadly wound,
  cam frae her een so bonie blue.
  but “spare to speak, and spare to speed;”
  she'll aiblins listen to my vow:
  should she refuse, i'll lay my dead
  to her twa een sae bonie blue.