C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

A Sang: ‘Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bride’

Tune—‘Busk ye, my bonny bride’

BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny bride;

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny marrow;

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bride,

Busk, and go to the braes of Yarrow:

There will we sport and gather dew,

Dancing while lavrocks sing the morning;

There learn frae turtles to prove true:

O Bell! ne’er vex me with thy scorning.

To westlin breezes Flora yields;

And when the beams are kindly warming,

Blythness appears o’er all the fields,

And nature looks mair fresh and charming:

Learn frae the burns that trace the mead,—

Though on their banks the roses blossom,

Yet hastily they flow to Tweed,

And pour their sweetness in his bosom.

Haste ye, haste ye, my bonny Bell,

Haste to my arms, and there I’ll guard thee;

With free consent my fears repel,

I’ll with my love and care reward thee.—

Thus sang I saftly to my fair,

Wha raised my hopes with kind relenting:

O queen of smiles! I ask nae mair,

Since now my bonny Bell’s consenting.