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Ayont the Mow amang the Hay.

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Tune—“Andrew wi' his Cutty Gun.”

Blythely hae I screw'd my pipes,
An' blythely play'd the lee-lang day,
An' blyther been wi' bonnie Bess
Ayont the mow amang the hay.
Whan first I saw the bonnie face
O' Bessie, bloomin' in her teens,
She wil'd away this heart o' mine,
An' ca'd it fou o' corkin' preens.
“At e'en, when a' the lave gae lie,
An' grannie steeks her waukrife e'e,
Steal out when i' the winnock tap,
Ahint the ha' I'll meet wi' thee.”
She leuch an' bade me let her hame,
Her mither sair wad flyte an' scauld;
But ere I quat my bonnie Bess,
Anither tale I trow she tauld.
On Tysday night, fu' weel I wat,
Wi' hinny words I row'd my tongue,
Raught down my plaid, an' stievely stak
Intil my neive a hazel rung.
Now when I con'd my artless tale
Gaun linkin' owre the lily lea,
Fu' weel I trow'd that ilka bush
Some jeering question speir'd at me.
The bleeter cry'd frae yont the loch,
“O hoolie, hoolie,—whare ye gaun?”
The craik reply'd frae mang the corn,
“Turn out your taes, my bonnie man.”
An' soon I found, wi' shiv'rin' shanks,
My heart play dunt through bashfu' fear,
Whan glowrin' owre the kail-yard dyke
To see gin a' the coast was clear;
An' there, like ony nightly thief,
Wi' eerie swither lour'd awhile,
Till rallying ilka traitor nerve,
I lightly laup outo'er the style;
Syne gae the glass twa cannie pats,
An' Bessie bade na lang frae me;
The rusty lock was ullied weel,
An' ilka hinge o' cheepin' free.
O say, ye haly minstrel band,
Wha saw the saft, the silken hour,
Though joys celestial on ye wait,
Say, was your bliss mair chastely pure?
Blythely hae I screw'd my pipes,
An' blythely play'd the lee-lang day,
An' happy been wi' bonnie Bess,
Ayont the mow amang the hay.
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