[I had forgotten about this one. This Scots version has some big differences. Untitled in G. R. Kinloch's 'The Ballad Book', #21, 1827]

It fell on a morning, a morning in May,
My father's cows they all went astray,
I loutit me down, and the heather was gay,
And a burr stack to my apron.

O! ance my apron it was wide,
But now my knees it will scarcely hide,
And O the grief I do bide,
When I look to my apron.

O! ance my apron it was new,
But now it's gotten anither hue,
But now it's gotten anither hue,
There's a braw lad below my apron.

I saw my father on the stair,
Kaiming doun his yellow hair,
Says- "What is that ye've gotten there,
Sae weel row'd aneath your apron?"

It's no a vagabond, nor yet a loon-
He's the rarest stay-maker in a' the toun,
And he's made a stomacher to bear up my goun,
And I row'd it aneath my apron.

I saw my mither on the stair,
Kaiming doun her yellow hair,
Says- "What's that ye've gotten there;
Sae weel row'd aneath your apron?"

It is my mantle and my shirt,
I had nae will to daidle it,
I had nae will to daidle it,
And I row'd it aneath my apron.

As I was walking up the street,
Wi' silver slippers on my feet,
O! aye my friends I'd ill will to meet,
And my braw lad row'd in my apron.