Flow gently, sweet Anton, amang thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee song in thy praise;My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Anton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock dove whose echo resounds tho' the glen, Ye wild whistle blackbird sin yon thorny den, Thou green crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Anton, thy neighboring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills;There daily I wanders noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary'sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow;There oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented bird shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Anton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot whereby Mary resides;How wanton thy watershed snowy feet lave, As, gathering sweet flowers, she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Anton, amang thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Anton, disturb not her dreams.