Poetry Archives

My Peggy is a young thing,
    Just enter’d in her teens
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay;
  My Peggy is a young thing,
    And I’m not very auld,
  Yet well I like to meet her at
    The wawking of the fauld.

  My Peggy speaks sae sweetly
    Whene’er we meet alane,
I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of a’ that’s rare;
  My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
    To a’ the lave I’m cauld,
  But she gars a’ my spirits glow
    At wawking of the fauld.

  My Peggy smiles sae kindly
    Whene’er I whisper love,
That I look down on a’ the town,
That I look down upon a crown;
  My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
    It makes me blyth and bauld,
  And naething gi’es me sic delight
    As wawking of the fauld.

  My Peggy sings sae saftly
    When on my pipe I play,
By a’ the rest it is confest,
By a’ the rest, that she sings best;
  My Peggy sings sae saftly,
    And in her sangs are tauld
  With innocence the wale of sense,
    At wawking of the fauld.