There are three versions of this song but we thought this version was  very easy to listen to.

Andrew Lammie (Mill o' Tifty's Annie)Version 3.

At Mill of Tifty lived a man,

In the neighbourhood of Fyvie;

He had a luvely daughter fair,

Was called bonny Annie.

Her bloom was like the springing flower

That hails the rosy morning,

With innocence and graceful mein,

Her beautous form adorning.

Lord Fyvie had a trumpeter,

Whose name was Andrew Lammie;

He had the art to gain the heart,

Of Mill o’f Tifty’s Annie.

Proper he was, both young and gay,

His like was not in Fyvie,

Nor was ane there that could compare,

With this same Andrew Lammie.

Lord Fyvie he rode by the door,

Where lived Tifty’s annie;

His trumpeter rode him before,

Even this same Andrew Lammie.

Her mother called her to the door;

‘Come here to me, my Annie:

Did e’er you see a prettier man,

Than the trumpeter o’ Fyvie?’

Nothing she said, but sighing sore,

Alas for Bonnie Annie!

She durst not own her heart was won,

By the trumpeter o’ Fyvie.

At night when all went to their bed,

All slept full soon but Annie;

Love so oppresst her tender breast,

Thinking on Andrew Lammie.

‘Love comes in at my bed-side,

And love lies down beyond me;

Love has possest my tender breast,

And love will waste my body.

‘The first time me and my love met

Was in the woods o’ Fyvie;

His lovely form and speech so soft

Soon gaind the heart of Annie.

‘He called me mistress; I said, No,

I’m Tifty’s bonny Annie;

With apples sweet he did me treat,

And kisses soft and mony.

‘It’s up and down in Tifty’s den,

Where the burn runs clear and bonny,

I’ve often gane to meet my love,

My bonny Andrew Lammie.’

But now alas! her father heard

That the trumpeter o’ Fyvie

Had had the art to gain the heart,

Of Mill of Tifty’s Annie.

Her father soon a letter wrote,

And sent it on to Fyvie,

To tell his daughter was bewitched,

By his servant, Andrew Lammie.

Then up the stair his trumpeter,

He call d soon and shortly:

‘Pray tell me soon what’s this you’ve done,

To Tifty’s bonny Annie.’

‘Woe be to Mill of Tifty’s pride,

For it has ruined many;

They’ll not have ’t said that she should wed,

The trumpeter o’ Fyvie.

‘In wicked art I had no part,

Nor therein am I canny;

True love alone the heart has won,

O’ Tifty’s bonnie Annie.

‘Where will I find a boy so kind,

That will carry a letter canny,

Who will run to Tifty’s town,

Give it to my love Annie?’

‘Tifty he has daughters three,

Who all are wonderous bonny;

But ye’ll ken her oe’r a’ the rest;

Give that to bonny Annie.

‘It’s up and down in Tifty’s den,

Where the burn runs clear and bonny,

There wilt thou come and I’ll attend;

My love, I long to see thee.’

‘Thou mayst come to the brig of Slugh,

And there I’ll come and meet thee;

It’s there we will renew our love,

Before I go and leave you.’

‘My love, I go to Edinburgh town,

And for a while must leave thee;’

She sighed sore, and said no more,

But ‘I wish that I were with you!’

‘I’ll buy to thee a bridal gown,

My love, I’ll buy it bonny;’

‘But I’ll be dead ere ye come back

To see your bonny Annie.’

‘If ye’ll be true and constant too,

As I am Andrew Lammie,

I shall thee wed when I come back,

To see the lands of Fyvie.’

‘I will be true and constant too,

To thee, my Andrew Lammie,

But my bridal bed or then’ll be made,

In the green kirk-yaird o’ Fyvie.’

‘The time is gone, and now comes on,

My dear, that I must leave thee;

If longer here I should appear,

Mill of Tifty he would see me.’

‘I now for ever bid adieu,

To thee, my Andrew Lammie;

Or ye come back I will be laid,

In the green kirk-yaird o’ Fyvie.’

He hied him to the head of the house,

To the house-top o’ Fyvie,

He blew his trumpet loud and shrill,

It was heard at Mill o’ Tifty.

Her father lockd the door at night,

Laid by the keys fu canny,

And when he heard the trumpet sound,

Said, Your cow is lowing, Annie.

‘My father dear, I pray forbear,

And reproach not your Annie;

I’d rather hear that cow to low,

Than all the kye in Fyvie.

‘I would not for my braw new gown,

And all your gifts so many,

That it was told in Fyvie land,

How cruel ye are to Annie.

‘But if you strike me I will cry,

And gentlemen will hear me;

Lord Fyvie will be riding by,

And he’ll come in and see me.’

At the same time the lord came in;

He said, What ails thee Annie?

‘It’s all for love now I must die,

For bonny Andrew Lammie.’

‘Pray, Mill of Tifty, give consent,

And let your daughter marry;’

‘It will be with some higher match,

Than the trumpeter o’ Fyvie.’

‘If she were come of as high a kind,

As she’s advanced in beauty,

I would take her unto myself,

And make her my own lady.’

Fyvie lands are far and wide,

And they are wonderous bonny;

But I would not leave my own true-love

For all the lands in Fyvie.’

Her father struck her wonderous sore,

As also did her mother;

Her sisters also did her scorn,

But woe be to her brother!

Her brother struck her wonderous sore,

With cruel strokes and many;

He broke her back in the hall-door,

For liking Andrew Lammie.

‘Alas! my father and my mother dear,

Why so cruel to your Annie?

My heart was broken first by love,

My brother has broke my body.

‘O mother dear, make me my bed,

And lay my face to Fyvie;

Thus will I lie, and thus will die,

For my dear Andrew Lammie.

‘Ye neighbours hear, baith far and near,

And pity Tifty’s Annie,

Who dies for love of one poor lad,

For bonny Andrew Lammie.

‘No kind of vice eer staind my life,

Or hurt my virgin honour;

My youthful heart was won by love,

But death will me exoner.’

Her mother than she made her bed,

And laid her face to Fyvie;

Her tender heart it soon did break,

And never saw Andrew Lammie.

Lord Fyvie he did wring his hands,

Said, Alas foe Tifty’s Annie!

The fairest flower’s cut down by love,

That ever sprang in Fyvie.

‘Woe be to Mill of Tifty’s pride!

He might have let them marry;

I should have given them both to live,

Into the lands o’ Fyvie.’

Her father sorely now laments,

The loss of his dear Annie,

And wishes he had given consent,

To wed with Andrew Lammie.

When Andrew home frae Edinburgh came,

With muckle grief and sorrow,

‘My love is dead for me to-day,

I’ll die for her to-morrow.

‘Now I will run to Tifty’s den,

Where the burn runs clear and bonny;

With tears I’ll view the brig of Slugh,

Where I parted from my Annie.

‘Then will I speed to the green kirk-yard,

To The green kirk-yaird o’ Fyvie,

With tears I’ll water my love’s grave,

Till I follow Tifty’s Annie.’

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