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 lea-rig,

    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 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 cheery o,

    to meet thee on the lea-rig,

    my ain kind dearie o.