 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
MY MARY.
My Mary is a bonnie lass,
Sweet as the dewy morn,
When Fancy turns her rural reed
Beside the upland thorn.
She lives ahint yon sunny knowe,
Where flowers in wild profusion grow,
Where spreading birks and hazels throw
Their shadows o'er the burn.
Sweet as the dewy morn,
When Fancy turns her rural reed
Beside the upland thorn.
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Where flowers in wild profusion grow,
Where spreading birks and hazels throw
Their shadows o'er the burn.
'Tis not the streamlet-skirted wood,
Wi' a' its leafy bowers,
That gars me wait in solitude
Among the wild-sprung flow'rs;
But aft I cast a langing e'e,
Down frae the bank, out-owre the lea,
There, haply, I my lass may see,
As through the broom she scours.
Wi' a' its leafy bowers,
That gars me wait in solitude
Among the wild-sprung flow'rs;
But aft I cast a langing e'e,
Down frae the bank, out-owre the lea,
There, haply, I my lass may see,
As through the broom she scours.
Yestreen I met my bonnie lass
Coming frae the town,
We raptur'd sank in ither's arms,
And prest the breckans down.
The pairtrick sung his e'ening note,
The ryecraik rispt his clam'rous throat,
While there the heav'nly vow I got
That arl't her my own.
Coming frae the town,
We raptur'd sank in ither's arms,
And prest the breckans down.
The pairtrick sung his e'ening note,
The ryecraik rispt his clam'rous throat,
While there the heav'nly vow I got
That arl't her my own.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |