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By Oughtertyre grows the aik,
On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonier lass
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.

Blythe, blithe and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and ben:
Blythe by the banks of Ern,
And blithe in Glenturit glen.

Her looks were like a flower in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn,
She tripped by the banks of Ern
As light's a bird upon a thorn.

Her bony face it was as meek
As ony lamb upon a lee;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the lawlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blithest lass
That ever trode the dewy green.

Blythe, blithe and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and ben:
Blythe by the banks of Ern,
And blithe in Glenturit glen.