THE HEATHER was blooming, the meadows were mawn, Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn, O’er moors and o’er mosses and mony a glen, At length they discover’d a bonie moor-hen.
Chorus.—I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men, I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men; Take some on the wing, and some as they spring, But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.
Sweet-brushing the dew from the brown heather bells Her colours betray’d her on yon mossy fells; Her plumage outlustr’d the pride o’ the spring And O! as she wanton’d sae gay on the wing. I rede you, &c.
Auld Phoebus himself, as he peep’d o’er the hill, In spite at her plumage he tried his skill; He levell’d his rays where she bask’d on the brae— His rays were outshone, and but mark’d where she lay. I rede you,&c.
They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill, The best of our lads wi’ the best o’ their skill; But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight. I rede you, &c.