My Love, She’s But A Lassie Yet

My love, she’s but a lassie yet,
My love, she’s but a lassie yet;
We’ll let her stand a year ortwa,
She’ll nobe half saesaucy yet;
I rue the day I sought her, O!
I rue the day I sought her, O!
Whagets her needs na say she’s woo’d,
But he may say he’s bought her, O.

Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet,
Come, draw a drapo’the best o’tyet,
Gaeseek for pleasure whare you will,
Buthere I never miss’d it yet,
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinkin o’t,
We’re a’drywi’drinkin o’t;
The minister kiss’d the fiddler’s wife;
He could napreach for thinkin o’t.