Robert Burns.

1759-1796

507   Mary Morison

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:
How blythely wad I bide the stour¹
   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 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.

508   Jean

OF a’ the airts¹ the wind can blaw,
    I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
    The lassie I lo’e best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,²
    And monie a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
    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,
    I hear her charm the air:
There’s not a bonnie flower that springs
    By fountain, shaw, or green;
There’s not a bonnie bird that sings,
    But minds me o’ my Jean.

509   Auld Lang Syne

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
   And never brought to min’?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
   And days o’ lang syne?

We twa hae rin about the braes,
   And pu’d the gowans¹ fine;
But we’ve wander’d monie a weary fit²
   Sin’ auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn,
   Frae mornin’ sun till dine;³
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
   Sin’ auld lang syne.

And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere,⁴
   And gie’s a hand o’ thine;
And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught⁵
   For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,
   And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
   For auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne, my dear,
   For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
   For auld lang syne.

510   My Bonnie Mary

GO fetch to me a pint o’ wine,
   An’ fill it in a silver tassie,¹
That I may drink, before I go,
   A service to my bonnie lassie.
The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith,
   Fu’ loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
The ship 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 it’s no the roar o’ sea or shore
   Wad mak me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shout o’ war that’s heard afar—
   It’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!