Blythe And Merry

By Ochtertyre there grows the aik, On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw.

Blythe, blythe and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben: Blythe by the banks of Earn, And blythe in Glenturit glen.

Her looks were like a flower in May, Her smile was like a simmer morn; She trippèd by the banks of Earn As light’s a bird upon a thorn.

Her bonnie face it was as meek As ony lamb’s upon a lea; The evening sun was ne’er sae sweet As was the blink o’ Phemie’s e’e.

The Highland hills I’ve wander’d wide, And o’er the Lowlands I hae been; But Phemie was the blythest lass That ever trod the dewy green.

She trippèd by the banks of Earn As light’s a bird upon a thorn.]