BEHIND yon hills where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
And I 'll awa to Nanie, O.
The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill;
The night 's baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hill to Nanie, O.
My Nanie 's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nanie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she 's bonie, O;
The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nanie, O.
A country lad is my degree,
An' few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they be,
I'm welcome ay to Nanie, O.
My riches a's my penny-fee,
An' I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a', my Nanie, O.
Our auld Guidman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nanie, O.
Come weel come woe, I care na by,
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen’ me, O;
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nanie, O.