The Bonie Moor-Hen

     The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn,
     Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn,
     O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen,
     At length they discover'd a bonie moor-hen.

     Chorus.—I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men,
     I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men;
     Take some on the wing, and some as they spring,
     But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.

     Sweet—brushing the dew from the brown heather bells
     Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells;
     Her plumage outlustr'd the pride o' the spring
     And O! as she wanton'd sae gay on the wing.
     I rede you, &c.

     Auld Phoebus himself, as he peep'd o'er the hill,
     In spite at her plumage he tried his skill;
     He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae—
     His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay.
     I rede you,&c.

     They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill,
     The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill;
     But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
     Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.
     I rede you, &c.