When War's shrill trumpet ca'd to arms,
And Britain bade fair Freedom yield,
Young Collin, won by loons' alarms,
Fled far to seek the tented field.
My heart was laith to bid adieu,
And aft the tears stole frae my een;
Three times he cried, 'Sweet lass, be true!'
Syne tore himself frae luckless Jean.

Blythe Spring awakes the tunefu' groves,
And gowans glint o'er meadows gay;
While Jean unpitied lonely roves,
And thinks o' him that's far away.
Auld Nature's smiles cou'd pleasure gi'e,
When Collin woo'd me on the green;
Ilk season brought new joys to me;
But Pleasure's fled frae luckless Jean.

Nae mair the blythsome lilt I hear
O' younkers singing at the plough;
A' round me seems a desert drear,
Where waving Plenty met my view.
Whene'er I steal alang the burn,
Where aft sae merry we ha'e been,
Ilk mavis seems wi' me to mourn,
Ilk lintwhite pities luckless Jean.

How lang will poor deluded man
Against his brither dra' his sword,
To shield a base oppressive clan,
The hireling, knave, and pamper'd lord!
Come, meek--ey'd Peace, thy olive wave,
Lang time a wand'rer hast thou been;
Thy smiles frae death may thousands save,
And bring her love to luckless Jean.