WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotias shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th Atlantic roar?
O sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;
But a the charms o the Indies
Can never equal thine.
I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotias strand.
We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join;
And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o time!
