Air - 'The Bog o' Gight.'
Oh, Cairney burn, sweet Cairney burn,
Thou makest many a winding turn;
How sweet thy murmurings to hear,
Like plaintive music to mine ear!
Tho' things sair changed we mourn to see,
Yet, burnie, there's nae change in thee,
Still, still thy waters clear rin on,
'Mang woody braes and mossy stone.

Oh, Cairney burn, sweet Cairney burn,
Half blithe, half wae, to thee I turn;
But where are they wha sit wi' me,
Sae pleased aneath thy shady tree?
Oh! where are they whase wee bit feet
Wad wade delighted thro' the weet?
Scrambling up 'mang thorns and beech,
The nits and brambles a' to reach.

Oh, Cairney burn, sweet Cairney burn,
May Mammon's hand ne'er come to turn
Thy waters clear to dingy dye,
Nor smoky clouds obscure thy sky!
Let no rude revelling intrude
To break this holy solitude;
Here may no stll - no barley-bree -
Augment poor Scotia's misery.

Oh, Cairney burn, sweet Cairney burn,
Still, still to thee my heart doth turn;
Wider, deeper streams I see,
But nane sae sweet, sae dear to me.
Here first we heard the cuckoo sing,
With all the melody of spring;
Here her footsteps first were seen,
Strewing flowers upon the green.