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By Oughtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; But Phemie was a bonier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Blythe, blithe and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben: Blythe by the banks of Ern, And blithe in Glenturit glen. Her looks were like a flower in May, Her smile was like a simmer morn, She tripped by the banks of Ern As light's a bird upon a thorn. Her bony face it was as meek As ony lamb upon a lee; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, And o'er the lawlands I hae been; But Phemie was the blithest lass That ever trode the dewy green. Blythe, blithe and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben: Blythe by the banks of Ern, And blithe in Glenturit glen.