The bearded rye was in the row,
The lintel in the pod;
No grass without its sod did grow,
No peas without a pod.
Between the Lammas open tide, —
And harvest getting in,
When Jockey walked by Jenny's side,
His courting to begin.


My dear saith he you are sa sweet,
Your face it is sa fair, —
Your bonnet bow is tied so neat,
I'm in love I do declair.
Here Jenny love, and dot no sin,
That rye is in the ear, —
And e're it comes in ear again,
Shall I have o'at to fear? —


Na' Jockey lad your tongue's o'er glib,
Such things I dinna tell,
Your pen will want a better knib,
To write love-letters well. —
I know the rye is in the ear,
But that I canna tell,
For what may hap anether year, —
Are secrets to my sell.


But Jenny love is like the bloom,
Of these sweet simmer flowers;
And if na' more the like should come,
Where leuk for happy hours. —
War' these same fields o' corn and rye,
The last that would be sown; —
War my last hopes o' thee to die;
Where would my joy be known.


Then Jenny answered Jockey well;
And waited no reply,
My joy I make to please my sell, —
Nor loose it all to sigh. —
There's mony a harvest to be met, —
And other fields o' rye:
And I'm o'er young to marry yet,
But I'll do't before I die.
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