Noo, as I roved out one summer's morn
Amang the lofty hills and moorland and mountain,
It was there I spied a lovely maid,
Whilst I with others was out a-hunting.

No shoes nor stockings did she wear;
Neither had she hat nor had she feather,
But her golden locks, aye, in ringlets rare
In the gentle breeze played around her shoulders.

“Oh,” I said, “braw lassie, why roam your lane?
Why roam your lane amang the heather?”
For she says, “My faither's awa' fae hame
And I'm herding a' his yowes thegether.”

“Noo,” I said, “braw lassie, if you'll be mine
And care to lie on a bed o' feathers,
In silks and satin it's you will shine,
And you'll be my queen amang the heather.”

“But,” she said, “kind sir, your offer is good,
But I'm afraid it was meant for laughter,
For I know you are some rich squire's son
And that I'm a poor lame shepherd's dochter.”

“But had you been a shepherd loon
A-herding yowes in the yonder valley,
Or had you been a plooman's son,
Wi' all my heart I would hae lo'ed ye.”

Noo, I hae been to balls and I hae been to halls;
I have been in London and Balquidder,
But the bonniest lassie that ever I did see
She was herding the yowes amang the heather.

So we baith sat doon upon the plain.
We sat awhile and we talked thegether,
And we left the yowes for to stray their lane,
Till I wooed my queen amang the heather.