In hearty good-humour, although she be teased,
I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleased.*
O, MARY, at thy window be
It is the wished, the trysted hour:
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor.
How blythely wad I byde the stoure,
slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison !
Yestreen, when to the stented string
The dance gaed through the lichtit ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing-
I sat, but neither heard nor saw.
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast o' a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
Ye are na Mary Morison.
O, Mary, canst thou wreck his
peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
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;
From Herd's Collection, 1776.
The high sentiment of this song, and especially of its second verse, has been remarked by Mr Hazlitt in one of his critical publications.
A thocht ungentle canna be
The thocht of Mary Morison.
Он, I'm come to the Low Countrie,
Ochon, ochon, ochrie !
Without a penny in my purse
To buy a meal to me.
It was na sae in the Highland hills,
Ochon, ochon, ochrie !
Nae woman in the country wide
Sae happy was as me!
For there I had a score o' kye,
Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Feeding on yon hill sae high,
And bringing milk to me.
And there I had three score o' yowes,
Ochon, ochon, ochrie !
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes,
And casting woo to me.
I was the happiest o' the clan,
Sair, sair may I repine!
For Donald was the bravest man,
And Donald he was mine.
Till Charlie he cam o'er at last,
Sae far, to set us free;
My Donald's arm was wanting then,
For Scotland and for me.
Their waefu' fate what need I tell!
Richt to the wrang did yield;
My Donald and his country fell
Upon Culloden-field.
Ochon, ochon, oh, Donald, oh!
Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Nae woman in this warld wide
Sae wretched now as me.*
TUNE-Low down in the Brume.
O, MY luve's like a red red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
Sae deep in luve am I ;
And I will love thee still, my dear
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
* From the Jacobite Relics, 1821.
O, WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU,
TUNE-Whistle and I'll come to you, my Lad.
O, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
O, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
Though father, and mother, and a' should gae mad,
O, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.
But warily tent, when you come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be ajee;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin' to me,
And come as ye were na comin' to me.
O, whistle, &c.
At kirk or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as though that ye cared na a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black ee,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.
O, whistle, &c.
Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whyles ye may lichtly my beauty a wee;
But court na anither, though jokin' ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
O, whistle, &c.
OH, GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED
Oн, gin my love were yon red rose
That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysell a drap o' dew,
Into her bonnie breast to fa'!
Oh, there, beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the nicht;
Seated on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fleyed awa by Phoebus' licht.*
[ADDITIONAL STANZA BY BUrns.]
O, WERE my love yon lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing;
How I wad mourn when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
How I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.
TUNE-I had a Horse.
O, PUIRTITH cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
*From Herd's Collection, 1776.
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