TO MARY.

TUNE-Ewe-bughts, Marion.

WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia's shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th' Atlantic's 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 Scotia's 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'!

MARY MORISON.

TUNE-Bide ye yet.

O MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor:

This song Mr. Thomson has not adopted in his collection. It deserves, however, to be preserved.

MARY MORISON.

How blithely wad I bid the stoure,
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 or saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And you the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',

Ye arena Mary Morison.'

O 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 wiltna gie,
At least be pity to me shown!

A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST.

TUNE-The Mill Mill O.

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning:

I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

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201

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again
I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported;

I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom! My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country langTake pity on a sodger.

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

And lovelier was than ever:
Quo' she, a sodger ance I loe'd,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it,

That gallant badge, the dear cockade,

Ye're welcome for the sake o't.

WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST.
She gaz'd—she redden'd like a rose-
Syne pale like ony lily;

She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gow'd,
A mailen plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize;
The sodger's wealth is honour:
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger,
Remember he's his country's stay
In day and hour of danger.

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER'.
TUNE-The Weaver and his Shuttle, O.

203

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, O,

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O,

This song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over. Burns' Reliques, p. 329.

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O, [worth regarding, O. For without an honest manly heart, no man was

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O, [was charming, O; Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great My talents they were not the worst; nor yet my education: 0,

[tion, O. Resolv'd was I at least to try to mend my situaIn many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour; O, [each endeavour, O; Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; sometimes

by friends forsaken; 0, [mistaken, O. And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion; O, [this conclusion; 0, I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untried; 0, [would enjoy it, O. But the present hour was in my pow'r, and SO I No help, nor hope, nor view had I; nor person to befriend me; 0, [to sustain me, 0, So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour To plough and Sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early; 0, [fortune fairly, O. For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O, [slumber; 0, Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow: 0, [to-morrow, O. I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of