John Pinkerton (1758–1826)

ON the blithe Beltane, as I went

By mysel’ out o’er the green bent,

Whereby the crystal waves of Clyde

Through saughs and hanging hazels glide,

There, sadly sitting on a brae,

I heard a damsel speak her wae.

‘O Bothwell bank, thou bloomest fair,

But ah! thou mak’st my heart fu’ sair!

For a’ beneath thy holts sae green

My love and I wad sit at e’en,

While primroses and daisies, mixed

Wi’ blue-bells, in my locks he fixed.

‘But he left me ae dreary day,

And haply now sleeps in the clay,

Without ae sigh his death to rune,

Without ae flower his grave to croun.

O Bothwell bank, thou bloomest fair,

But ah! thou mak’st my heart fu’ sair.’