Hurray, hurray, the jade’s away.

Like a rocket of air with her bandalet!

I’m up in the air on my bonnie grey mare,

But I see her yet, I see her yet.

I’ll ring the skirts o’ the gowden wain

Wi’ curb an’ bit, wi’ curb an’ bit:

An’ catch the Bear by the frozen mane —

An’ I see her yet, I see her yet.

Away, away, o’er mountain an’ main,

To sing at the morning’s rosy yett;

An’ water my mare at its fountain clear —

But I see her yet, I see her yet.

Away, thou bonnie witch o’ Fife,

On foam of the air to heave an’ flit,

An’ little reck thou of a poet’s life,

For he sees thee yet, he sees thee yet!