Robert Crawford (1695–1732)

WHEN trees did bud, and fields were green,

And broom bloomed fair to see,

When Mary was complete fifteen,

And love laughed in her e’e,

Blyth Davie’s blinks her heart did move

To speak her mind thus free,

‘Gang doun the burn, Davie love,

And I shall follow thee.’

Now Davie did each lad surpass

That dwelt on this burnside.

And Mary was the bonniest lass,

Just meet to be a bride.

Her cheeks were rosy, red and white,

Her e’en were bonnie blue,

Her looks were like Aurora bright,

Her lips like dropping dew.

As down the burn they took their way,

What tender tales they said;

His cheek to hers he aft did lay

And with her bosom played.

Till baith at length impatient grown

To be mair fully blest,

In yonder vale they leaned them down—

Love only saw the rest.

What passed, I guess was harmless play,

And naething, sure, unmeet,

For ganging hame I heard him say

They liked a walk sae sweet,

And that they often should return

Sic pleasures to renew.

Quoth Mary, ‘Love, I like the burn,

And aye shall follow you.’