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O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
Ye wadna been sae shy;
For laik o' gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.

Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stour;
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.

When coming hame on Sunday last,
Upon the road as I cam past,
Ye snufft and ga'e your head a cast -
But trowth I care't na by.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.

But sorrow tak' him that's sae mean,
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean,
That looks sae proud and high.

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt ,
And answer him fu' dry.

But, if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye .

But, Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice:
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad speir your price,
Were ye as poor as I.

There lives a lass beside yon park,
I'd rather hae her in her sark,
Than you wi' a' your thousand mark;
That gars you look sae high.

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
Ye wadna been sae shy;
For laik o' gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.

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