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　　The Bonie Moor-Hen

　　The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn,

　　Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn,

　　O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen,

　　At length they discover'd a bonie moor-hen.

　　Chorus.—I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men,

　　I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men;

　　Take some on the wing, and some as they spring,

　　But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.

　　Sweet—brushing the dew from the brown heather bells

　　Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells;

　　Her plumage outlustr'd the pride o' the spring

　　And O! as she wanton'd sae gay on the wing.

　　I rede you, &c.

　　Auld Phoebus himself, as he peep'd o'er the hill,

　　In spite at her plumage he tried his skill;

　　He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae—

　　His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay.

　　I rede you,&c.

　　They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill,

　　The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill;

　　But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,

　　Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.

　　I rede you, &c. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns