Mary Morison

O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish’d, the trystedhour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser’s treasure poor:
How blythely was I bidethe stour,
A weary slave fraesun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaedthro’ the lighted ha’,
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, butneither heard nor saw:
Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw,
And yonthe toast of a’the town,
I sigh’d, and said among them a’,
“Ye are na Mary Morison.”

Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Whafor thy sake wadgladly die?
Orcanst thou break that heart of his,
Whaseonly fautis loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt nagie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle cannabe
The thought o’Mary Morison.