James Hogg (1770–1835)

MY love she’s but a lassie yet,

A lightsome lovely lassie yet;

It scarce wad do

To sit and woo

Down by the stream sae glassy yet.

But there’s a braw time coming yet,

When we may gang a roaming yet;

An’ hint wi’ glee

O’ joys to be,

When fa’s the modest gloaming yet.

She’s neither proud nor saucy yet,

She’s neither plump nor gaucy yet;

But just a jinking,

Bonny blinking,

Hilty-skilty lassie yet.

But O her artless smile’s mair sweet,

Than hinny or than marmalete;

An’ right or wrang,

Ere it be lang,

I’ll bring her to a parley yet.

I’m jealous o’ what blesses her,

The very breeze that kisses her,

The flowery beds

On which she treads,

Though wae for ane that misses her.

Then O to meet my lassie yet,

Up in yon glen sae grassy yet;

For all I see

Are nought to me,

Save her that’s but a lassie yet.