i'll meet thee on 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 birken buds
    wi' dew are hangin clear, my jo,
    i'll meet thee on the learig,
    my ain kind dearie o.
    at midnight hour, in mirkest glen,
    i'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, o,
    if thro' that glen i gaed to thee,
    my ain kind dearie o;
    altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,
    and i were ne'er sae weary o,
    i'll meet thee on the learig,
    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 cheery o,
    to meet thee on the learig,
    my ain kind dearie o.