There's nae lark loves the [lift]1, my dear,
 There's nae ship loves the sea,
 There's nae bee loves the heather-bells,
 That loves as I love thee, my love,
 That loves as I love thee.

 The whin shines fair upon the fell,
 The blithe broom on the lea:
 The muirside wind is merry at heart;
 It's a' for love of thee, my love,
 It's a' for love of thee.