Her fadder's whope, her mudder's preyde,
Was black--ey'd Marget o' the Mill,
And summer day, or winter neet,
Was happy, cheerfu', busy still;
And Ralph, her fadder, oft declar'd,
His darlin forty punds shou'd have
The day a husban tuik her han,
And mair, if lang he skeap'd the greave.

The lilly and the deyke--rwose beath,
Were mix'd in Marget's bonny feace;
Her form mud win the cauldest heart,
And her's was nature's modest greace;--
Her luik drew monie a neybor laird,
Her een luive's piercin arrows fir'd;
But nae rich laird cud gain the han
Of this fair flow'r, by aw admir'd.

Oh, luckless hour! at town ae day,
Yen in a sowdger's dress she saw;
He stule her heart--and frae that hour,
May Marget date a leyfe of woe;--
For now she shuns aw roun the mill,
Nae langer to her bosom dear;
And faded is her bonny feace,
And dim her e'e wi' monie a tear.

Peer Marget! yence a fadder's preyde,
Is now widout a fadder left;
Deserted, aw day lang she moans,
Luive's victim, of ilk whope bereft!
Ye lasses, aw seducers shun,
And think o' Marget o' the Mill;
She, crazy, daunders wid her bairn,
A prey to luive and sorrow still.