Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
Ye wander thro’ the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettric shaws,
Can match the lads o’ Galla water.
But there is ane, a secret ane,
Aboon them a’ I lo’e him better;
And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine,
The bonie lad o’ Galla water.
Altho’ his daddie was nae laird,
And tho’ I hae na meikle tocher;
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
We’ll tent our flocks by Galla water.
It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth
That coft contentment, peace or pleasure;
The bands and bliss o’ mutual love,
O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure!