Allan Cunningham (1784–1842)

SHE’S gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,

She’s gane to dwall in heaven;

Ye’re ower pure, quoth the voice of God,

For dwalling out of heaven!

O what’ll she do in heaven, my lassie?

O what’ll she do in heaven?—

She’ll mix her ain thoughts with angels’ sangs,

An’ make them mair meet for heaven.

Low there thou lies, my lassie,

Low there thou lies;

A bonmer form ne’er went to the yird,

Nor frae it will arise!

Fu’ soon I’ll follow thee, lassie,

Fu’ soon I’ll follow thee;

Thou left me nought to covet ahin’,

But took gudness’ self wi’ thee.

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,

I looked on thy death-cold face;

Thou seemed a lilie new cut i’ the bud,

An’ fading in its place.

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,

I looked on thy death-shut eye;

An’ a lovelier light in the brow of heaven

Fell time shall ne’er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,

Thy lips were ruddy and calm;

But gane was the holy breath of heaven

To sing the evening psalm.

There’s nought but dust now mine, lassie,

There’s nought but dust now mine;

My saul’s wi thee in the cauld grave,

An’ why should I stay behin’?