Page:Mary of Glenkilloch.pdf/2



W ye go to Glenkilloch, Mary, where the burnie fa’s owre the linn? Its murmurs are dearer to me, Mary, when borne on the saft breathing win’, The sun ſheds his beams, my Mary, on the white blossom’d Hawthorn tree, But his beams are nought to me, Mary, compar’d with thy love-glancing e’e.

The woodlark sings sweet, my Mary, at eve, in the green leafy grove; But his strains are still sweeter, my Mary when with thee I joyfully rove. Haste then to the glen, my Mary, ere summer frae us will be gane: O say that thou lovest me, Mary, ’twill ease my fond heart o’ its pain.

O are ye sleepin’ Maggie? O are ye sleepin’ Maggie? Let me in, for loud the linn Is roarin’ o’er the warlock craigie.