O MARY, at thy window be,
It is the wishd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the misers treasure poor:
How blythely was I bide the stour,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro the lighted ha,
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a the town,
I sighd, and said among them a,
Ye are na Mary Morison.
Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o Mary Morison.
