The lintie lichtit on the bough
Abune twa lovers true
An' sweet an' lang she sang her lilt
Fin love wis fresh, an' new.

Fin love grew auld, the bird cam' back
Bit didna hinner lang
For `Fegs,' quo' she — 'there's nocht bit strife
A spittin' futterat's man an' wife
I widna waste ma sang.'