Maggy of Buccleuch

O Cam' ye through the forests green,
By Yarrow's mountains wild an' blue ;
O saw ye beauty's rural queen,
The bonny Maggy o' Buccleuch.

For Maggy is the bonniest flower
On Yarrow braes that ever grew,
That ever graced a vernal bower,
Or frae the gowan brushed the dew.

But O ! it's no her comely face,
Nor blink o' joy that's in her ee,
Nor her enchanting form o' grace,
That maks the lassie dear to me ;
Na, na, it's no the cherry lip,
The rosy cheek an' lily chin,
Which the wild bee wad like to sip —
'Tis the sweet soul that dwells within.

I hae been up the cauldrife north,
'Mang hills an' dells o' frozen brine,
As far as reels the rowin earth,
An' far ayont the burning line;
But a; the lasses e'er I saw,
For modest mien an' lovely hue,
There was na ane amang them a'

Like bonny Maggy o' Buccleuch.