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 the 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!

་་

Mary Campbell was the heroine of this song, of which Burns says, in a letter to Thomson about October or November, 1792, " In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the merit of Ewe-bughts;' but it will fill up this page. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after-times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race."

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;
How blithely wad I bide 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 Thomson, Burns wrote, 20th March, 1793, "This song is one of my juvenile works. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits, or demerits."

+ This song, which has been collated with a copy in the Poet's own hand, was sent to Thomson in April, 1793. Mr. Thomson says, the following incident relative to this song was communicated to him by a friend, a clergyman in Dumfriesshire: "Burns, I have been informed, was one

To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard or 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 are na 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 wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown!
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

THE SOGER'S RETURN.†

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:

summer evening at the inn at Brownhill with a couple of friends, when a poor way worn soldier passed the window. Of a sudden it struck the poet to call him in, and get the story of his adventures, after listening to which, he all at once fell into one of those fits of abstraction not unusual with him. He was lifted to the region where he had his garland and singing robes about him,' and the result was the admirable song which he sent you for 'The Mill Mill 0.""

I left the lines and tented field,

Where lang I'd been a lodger, My humble knapsack a' my wealth, poor and honest soger.

A

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 bonie 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,2
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 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 lang

Take pity on a soger

VAR. And ay I min't. MS. 3 fremit. MS.

!

2 lass. MS.

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,
And lovelier was than ever:
Quo' she, a soger ance I lo'ed,
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.

She gaz'd—she redden'd like a rose-
Syne pale like onie lily ;5

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 gowd,
A mailen plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithful' soger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,

The farmer ploughs the manor;

But glory is the soger's prize;
The soger's wealth is honour:

VAR. look'd. MS. 5 wallow't like a lily. MS.

6 And.

9 ain dear.