I've seen thirty Summers strow flow'rs i' the glen,
But annuder blithe Summer I'll ne'er see again!
I've hed monie wooers, frae clown to the beau,
But I've lost Rob Lowrie, the flow'r o' them aw!

The furst was Joe Coupland, when I was fifteen;
The neist was Wull Wawby, and then com Gib Green;
An' Jwohn o' Kurkan'rews, and Sly Dicky Slee,
But bonny Rob Lowrie was dearest to me!

'Twas last Durdar reaces, he rid the black cowt,
And widout onie whuppin, he bang't tem leyke owt;
And then when they russel'd, the lads how he felt!
And off heame we canter't, wi' breydle and belt.

At neets when we daunder't alang Cauda seyde,
He'd promise, and promise to mek me his breyde;
An'then our twee neames he wad carve on the steyle--
Lord help the peer lasses men seek to beguile!

I luik owre the pasture--nae Rob's to be seen!
Then sit down, heart--broken, an' tears blin my een:
My mudder she fratches, frae mwornin till neet,
And lasses keep flyrin', wheniver we meet.

When singin', Rob Lowrie was ay i' my sang;
Now thoughts o' Rob Lowrie hae turn'd me quite wrang;
He's weel--shep'd, an' lusty, he stans six feet twee;
Theer's health in his fair feace, and luive in his ee!

But whee's this comes whuslin', sae sweet, owre the hill?
He brings me a pwosey--It's e'en Gwordie Gill!
He's lish, an' he's canny, wi' reed curly hair--
The Deil tek Rob Lowrie! I'll heed him nae mair!