At Mill o’ Tifty liv’d a man,

In the neighbourhood of Fyvie;

He had a lovely daughter fair,

Was called bonny Annie.

Her bloom was like the springing flower

That salutes the rosy morning,

With innocence and graceful mien

Her beauteous form adorning.

Lord Fyvie had a trumpeter

Whose name was Andrew Lammie;

He had the art to gain the heart

Of Mill o’ Tiftie’s Annie.

Proper he was, both young and gay,

His like was not in Fyvie,

No one was there that could compare

With this same Andrew Lammie.

Lord Fyvie he rode by the door

Where lived Tiftie’s Annie;

His trumpeter rode him before,

Even this same Andrew Lammie.

Her mother call’d her to the door:

“Come here to me, my Annie:

Did you ever see a prettier man

Than this Trumpeter of Fyvie?”

She sighed sore, but said no more

Alas, for Bonnie Annie!

She durst not own her heart was won

By the trumpeter of Fyvie.

At night when all went to their beds,

All slept full sound but Annie;

Love so opprest her tender breast,

Thinking on Andrew Lammie.

“Love comes in at my bed side,

And love lies down beyond me;

Love has posses’d my tender breast,

And love will waste my body.

“The first time I and my love met

Was in the woods of Fyvie;

His lovely form and speech so sweet

Soon gain’d the heart of Annie.

“He called me mistress; I said, No,

I’m Tiftie’s bonny Annie;

With apples sweet he did me treat;

And kisses soft and many.

“It’s up and down in Tiftie’s den,

Where the burn runs clear and bonny,

I’ve often gone to meet my love,

My bonny Andrew Lammie.”

But now, alas! her father heard

That the trumpeter of Fyvie

Had had the art to gain the heart

Of Tiftie’s bonny Annie.

Her father soon a letter wrote,

And sent it on to Fyvie,

To tell his daughter was bewitch’d

By his servant, Andrew Lammie.

When Lord Fyvie had this letter read,

O dear! but he was sorry;

The bonniest lass in Fyvie’s land

Is bewitched by Andrew Lammie.

Then up the stair his trumpeter

He called soon and shortly:

“Pray tell me soon what’s this you’ve done

To Tiftie’s bonny Annie?”

“In wicked art I had no part,

Nor therein am I canny;

True love alone the heart has won

Of Tiftie’s bonnie Annie.

“Woe betide Mill o’ Tiftie’s pride,

For it has ruin’d many;

He’ll no ha’e ‘t said that she should wed

The Trumpeter of Fyvie.

“Where will I find a boy so kind

That’ll carry a letter canny,

Who will run on to Tiftie’s town,

Give it to my love Annie?”

“Here you shall find a boy so kind,

Who’ll carry a letter canny,

Who will run on to Tiftie’s town,

And gi’e ‘t to thy love Annie?”

“It’s Tiftie he has daughters three

Who all are wondrous bonny;

But ye’ll ken her oer a’ the lave;

Gi’e that to bonny Annie.”

“It’s up and down in Tiftie’s den,

Where the burn runs clear and bonny,

There wilt you come and meet thy love;

Thy bonnie Andrew Lammie.”

“When wilt thou come, and I’ll attend?

My love, I long to see thee.”

“Thou may’st come to the bridge of Sleugh,

And there I’ll come and meet thee.”

“My love, I go to Edinbro’,

And for a while must leave thee;”

She sighed sore, and said no more

But “I wish that I were wi’ thee”

“I’ll buy to thee a bridal gown,

My love, I’ll buy it bonny;”

“But I’ll be dead ere ye come back

To see your bonny Annie.”

“If you’ll be true and constant too,

As my name’s Andrew Lammie,

I shall thee wed when I come back

To see the lands of Fyvie.”

“I will be true and constant too

To thee, my Andrew Lammie,

But my bridal bed will ere then be made

In the green churchyard of Fyvie.”

“The time is gone, and now comes on,

My dear, that I must leave thee;

If longer here I should appear,

Mill o’ Tiftie he would see me.”

“I now for ever bid adieu

To thee, my Andrew Lammie;

Ere ye come back I will be laid

In the green churchyard of Fyvie.”

He hied him to the head of the house,

To the house top of Fyvie;

He blew his trumpet loud and schill,

T’was heard at Mill o’ Tiftie.

Her father lock’d the door at night,

Laid by the keys fu’ canny,

And when he heard the trumpet sound

Said, “Your cow is lowing, Annie.”

“My father dear, I pray forbear,

And reproach no more your Annie;

For I’d rather hear that cow to low

Than ha’e all the kine in Fyvie.

“I would not for my braw new gown,

And a’ your gifts sae many,

That it were told in Fyvie’s land

How cruel you are to Annie.

“But if you strike me, I will cry,

And gentlemen will hear me;

Lord Fyvie will be riding by,

And he’ll come in and see me.”

At the same time, the lord came in;

He said, “What ails thee Annie?”

“‘Tis all for love now I must die,

For bonny Andrew Lammie.”

“Pray, Mill o’ Tiftie, gi’e consent,

And let your daughter marry.”

“It will be with some higher match

Than the Trumpeter of Fyvie.”

“If she were come of as high a kind

As she’s adorned with beauty,

I would take her unto myself,

And make her my own lady.”

“It’s Fyvie’s lands are fair and wide,

And they are rich and bonny;

I would not leave my own true love

For all the lands of Fyvie.”

Her father struck her wondrous sore,

As also did her mother;

Her sisters also did her scorn,

But woe be to her brother!

Her brother struck her wondrous sore,

With cruel strokes and many;

He brake her back in the hall door,

For liking Andrew Lammie.

“Alas! my father and my mother dear,

Why so cruel to your Annie?

My heart was broken first by love,

My brother has broken my body.

“O mother dear, make ye my bed,

And lay my face to Fyvie;

Thus will I ly, and thus will die,

For my love, Andrew Lammie.

“Ye neighbours hear, both far and near,

Ye pity Tiftie’s Annie,

Who dies for love of one poor lad,

For bonny Andrew Lammie.

“No kind of vice e’er stain’d my life,

Or hurt my virgin honour;

My youthful heart was won by love,

But death will me exoner.”

Her mother than she made her bed,

And laid her face to Fyvie;

Her tender heart it soon did break,

And ne’er saw Andrew Lammie.

But the word soon went up and down,

Through all the lands of Fyvie;

That she was dead and buried,

Even Tiftie’s bonny Annie.

Lord Fyvie he did wring his hands,

Said, “Alas foe Tiftie’s Annie!

The fairest flower’s cut down by love

That e’er sprung up in Fyvie.

“O woe betide Mill o’ Tiftie’s pride!

He might have let them marry;

I should have giv’n them both to live

Into the lands of Fyvie.”

Her father sorely now laments

The loss of his dear Annie,

And wishes he had gi’en consent

To wed with Andrew Lammie.

Her mother grieves both air and late;

Her sisters, ’cause they scorned her;

Surely her brother doth mourn and grieve

For the cruel usage he’d giv’n her.

But now, alas! it was too late;

For they could not recal her;

Through life, unhappy is their fate,

Because they did controul her.

When Andrew hame frae Edinburgh came,

With meickle grief and sorrow,

“My love has died for me to-day,

I’ll die for her to-morrow.

“Now I will on to Tiftie’s den,

Where the burn runs clear and bonny;

With tears I’ll view the bridge of Sleugh,

Where I parted last with Annie.

“Then will I speed to the churchyard,

To The green churchyard of Fyvie,

With tears I’ll water my love’s grave,

Till I follow Tiftie’s Annie.”

Ye parents grave, who children have,

In crushing them be canny;

Lest when too late you do repent;

Remember Tiftie’s Annie.