O MARY, at thy window be,
It is the wishd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me
That make the misers treasure poor:
How blythely wad I bide the stour1
A weary slave frae sun to
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 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
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o Mary Morison.
OF a the airts1 the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
lassie I loe best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,2
And monie a hill between;
But day and night my
Is ever wi my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu birds,
her charm the air:
Theres not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
Theres not a bonnie
bird that sings,
But minds me o my Jean.
SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min?
Should auld acquaintance
And days o lang syne?
We twa hae rin about the braes,
And pud the gowans1 fine;
But weve wanderd monie a
Sin auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidlt i the burn,
Frae mornin sun till dine;3
But seas between us braid hae
Sin auld lang syne.
And heres a hand, my trusty fiere,4
And gies a hand o thine;
And well tak a right guid-willie
For auld lang syne.
And surely yell be your pint-stowp,
And surely Ill be mine;
And well tak a cup o kindness
For auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
Well tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang
GO fetch to me a pint o wine,
An fill it in a silver tassie,1
That I may drink, before I go,
to my bonnie lassie.
The boat rocks at the pier o Leith,
Fu loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
rides by the Berwick-law,
And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are rankàed ready;
The shouts o
war are heard afar,
The battle closes thick and bloody;
But its no the roar o sea or shore
Wad mak me
langer wish to tarry;
Nor shout o war thats heard afar
Its leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!
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