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Among our young lassies there's Muirland Meg,
She'll beg or she work, & she'll play or she beg,
At thirteen her maidenhead flew to the gate,
And the door o' her cage stands open yet.

And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't, she'll do't,
And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't;
And for a toop-horn she'll do't to the morn,
And merrily turn and do't, and do't.

Her kittle black een they wad thirl you thro'.
Her rose-bud lips cry, kiss me now;
The curls and links o' her bonie black hair,
Wad put you in mind that the lassie has mair.

And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't, she'll do't,
And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't;
And for a toop-horn she'll do't to the morn,
And merrily turn and do't, and do't.

An armfu' o' love is her bosom sae plump,
A span o' delight is her middle sae jimp;
A taper, white leg, and a thumpin thie,
And a fiddle near by, an ye play a wee!

And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't, she'll do't,
And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't;
And for a toop-horn she'll do't to the morn,
And merrily turn and do't, and do't.

Love's her delight, and kissin's her treasure;
She'll stick at nae price, and ye gie her gude measure,
As lang's a sheep-fit, and as girt's a goose-egg,
And that's the measure o' Muirland Meg.

And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't, she'll do't,
And for a sheep-cloot she'll do't;
And for a toop-horn she'll do't to the morn,
And merrily turn and do't, and do't.

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