The Lea Rig
When o’er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrow’d field
Return sae dowf and weary O;
Down by the burn where scented birks
Wi’ dew are hangin clear, my jo,
I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
At midnight hour, in mirkest glen,
I’d rove and ne’er be irie O,
If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind Dearie O:
Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wet,
And I were ne’er sae weary O,
I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
The hunter lo’es the morning sun;
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Adown the burn to steer, my jo:
Gie me the hour o’ gloamin grey,
It maks my heart sae cheary O
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
