There's a yellow thread in the Gordon plaid,
But it binds na my love an’ me;
And the ivy leaf has brought dool and grief
Where there never but love should be.
For my lad would‘ list: when a Duchess kiss't
He forgot a’ the vows he made;
And he turned and took but ae lang, last look,
When the “Cock o’ the North” was played.
O, her een were bright, an’ her teeth were white
As the silver they held between;
But the lips he pree'd, were they half as sweet
As he vow'd‘ at mine were yestreen?
A poor country lass,‘ mang the dewy grass,
May hae whiles to kilt up her goon;
But a lady hie sae to show her knee,
And to dance in a boro’ toon!
Gin I were the Duke, I could nae mair look
Wi’ love on my high-born dame;
At a kilt or plaid I would hang my head,
And think aye on my lady's shame.
By my leefu’ lane I sit morn an’ e'en,
Prayin’ aye for him back to me;
For now he's awa’ I forgie him a’
Save the kiss he was‘ listed wi’.