while the life beats in my bosom,

thou shalt mix in ilka throe:

turn again, thou lovely maiden,

ae sweet smile on me bestow.

not the bee upon the blossom,

in the pride o' sinny noon;

not the little sporting fairy,

all beneath the simmer moon;

not the minstrel in the moment

fancy lightens in his e'e,

kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,

that thy presence gies to me.