1.
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide
That day I was my Willie's bride,
And years sin syne hae o'er us run
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flowery banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
2.
Again the merry month of May
Has made our hills and vallies gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,
And Evening tears are tears o' joy:
My soul delightless a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
3.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush:
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his song her cares beguile.
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
4.
O, wae upon you, Men o' State,
That brethren rouse in deadly hate!
As ye make monie a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
Ye mindna 'mid your cruel joys
The widow's tears, the orphan's cries;
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan braes!

O Logan, sweetly did you glide
That day I was my Willie's bride,
And years since then have over us run
Like Logan to the summer sun.
But now your flowery banks appear
Like dull winter, dark and dreary,
While my dear lad must face his foes
Far, far from me and Logan hillsides (slopes).

Again the merry month of May
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,
And Evening tears are tears of joy:
My soul with no delight all surveys,
While Willie is far from Logan hillsides (slopes).

Within yonder milk-white hawthorn bush,
Among her nestlings sits the thrush:
Her faithful mate will share her toil,
Or with his song her cares beguile.
But I with my sweet nurslings here,
No mate to help, no mate to cheer,
Pass widowed nights and joyless days,
While Willie is far from Logan hillsides (slopes).

O, woe upon you, Men of State,
That brethren rouse in deadly hate!
As you make many a fond heart mourn,
So may it on your heads return!
You remember not amid your cruel joys
The widow's tears, the orphan's cries;
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie home to Logan hillsides (slopes)!