Blythe, blythe and merry was she,
⁠Blythe was she but and ben:
Blythe by the banks of Earn,
⁠And blythe in Glenturin glen.

By Ochtertyre grows the aik,
⁠On Yarrow braes the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass,
⁠Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw.
⁠Blythe, &c.

Her looks were like a flower in May,
⁠Her smile was like a simmer morn;
She tripped by the banks'o’ Earn,
⁠As light’s a bird upon a thorn.
⁠Blythe, &c.

Her bonnie face it was as meek,
⁠As onie lamb upon the lea:
The ev’ning sun was ne’er sae sweet,
⁠As was the blink o’ Phemie’s e’e.
⁠Blythe, &c.

The Highland hills I’ve wander’d wide,
⁠And o’er the Lowlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blythest lass,
⁠That ever trod the dewy green.
⁠Blythe, &c.