My Dear Little Lassie

My dear little lassie, why, what 's a' the matter?
My heart it gangs pittypat--winna lie still;
I 've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better,
Yet, lassie, believe me, I 'm aye growin' ill!
My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I 'm speakin',
I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak;
I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin',
Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I would seek.

Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,
And yet, when to ruse ye the neebour lads try--
Though it 's a' true they tell ye--yet never sae far off
I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.
When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,
And never grew weary the lang simmer day;
The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,
And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay.

In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak us cheerie,
'Mang the lave o' the lasses I preed yer sweet mou';
Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye--
My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.
When we dance at the gloamin', it 's you I aye pitch on;
And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be!
There 's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,
That tells me my happiness centres in thee.