Sweet Willy

Whilst on those hills I feed my sheep, Sweet Willy in my mind, He makes me often for to weep, I fear he is unkind: And though I frown and turn away, Yet him I dearly love; From lambs and Lambkins I would stray If he would constant prove.

I said to him, dear Willy, mind, That lambs are made a prey; And wicked wolves we often find, With lambkins run away: But that's not me, sweet Willy cry'd, I can't hurt what I love; In yonder kirk you'll be my bride, Which shortly I will prove.

The other day he spoke more plain, And press'd I'd fix the day; Ungrateful I to give him pain, Or let my lambkins stray, Did promise then with falt'ring voice, And stutter'd—Sunday noon; I own'd to him he was my choice, But thought the day too soon.

To kirk we went on Sunday noon, Where we were both made one; I did not think it then too soon, Which now shall end my song: I happy am, sweet Willy cried, 'Tis you that I adore; And now he has made me his bride, I'll love him more and more.