pretty peg
as i gaed up by yon gate-end,
when day was waxin' weary,
wha did i meet e dowreet,
but pretty peg, my dearie!
her air sae sweet, an' shape plete,
wi' nae proportion wanting,
the queen of love did never move
wi' motion mair enting.
wi' linked hands we took the sands,
adown yon winding river;
oh, that sweet hour and shady bower,
fet it shall i never!