When o'er the hill the eastern star   Tells bughtin time is near, my jo,   And owsen frae the furrow'd field   Return sae dowf and weary O;   Down by the burn, where birken buds   Wi' dew are hangin clear, my jo,   I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,   My ain kind Dearie O.      At midnight hour, in mirkest glen,   I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O,   If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,   My ain kind Dearie O;   Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,   And I were ne'er sae weary O,   I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,   My ain kind Dearie O.      The hunter lo'es the morning sun;   To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;   At noon the fisher seeks the glen   Adown the burn to steer, my jo:   Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey,   It maks my heart sae cheery O,   To meet thee on the lea-rig,   My ain kind Dearie O.