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.