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.