O waly, waly up the bank!
    And waly, waly, down the brae!
And waly, waly yon burn-side,
    Where I and my love wont to gae!

I lean'd my back unto an aik,
    I thought it was a trusty tree ;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
    Sae my true love did lightly me.

 O waly, waly! but love be bonny
    A little time, while it is new ;
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld,
    And fades away like morning dew.

 O wherefore shou'd I busk my head?
   Or wherefore shou'd I kame my hair?
For my true-love has me forsook,
    And says he'll never love me mair.

Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed,
    The sheets shall neer be fyl'd by me ;
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,
    Since my true-love has forsaken me. 

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
    And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
    For of my life I am weary. 

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
    Nor blawing snaw's inclemency ;
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
    But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 

When we came in by Glasgow town,
    We were a comely sight to see ;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
    And I my sell in cramasie.

 But had I wist, before I kiss'd,
   That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,
    And pin'd it with a silver pin. 

Oh, oh, if my young babes were born,
    And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I my sell were dead and gane!
    For a maid again I'll never be.