(with great tenderness and rather slow)
The years are long, the work is saw,
And life is of times wae and wearie,
Yet Foye's flood shall cease to fall
Ere my love fail unto my dearie
I lo'ed her then, I lo'e her now
And could the world wad be without her,
The croodlin bairnies at her knee
And locht o' mithers love about her.