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Rh Ye regiſters of time relate,

If looking o’er the rolls of Fate;

Did you there ſee me mark’d to marrow

Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow?

Ah no! her form’s too heav’nly fair,

Her love the greateſt ſure muſt ſhare,

While others with deſpair explore her,

And, at diſtance due, adore her.

O lovely maid! my doubts beguile,

Revive and bleſs me with a ſmile;

Alas! if not, you’ll ſoon debar a

Sighing ſwain the banks of Yarrow.

Be huſh, ye fears, I’ll not deſpair,

My Mary’s tender as ſhe’s fair.

Then I’ll go tell her all my anguiſh,

She is too good to let me languiſh:

With ſucceſs crown’d, I’ll not envy

Thoſe folks who live in ſtation high:

When Mary Scott’s become my marrow;

We’ll make a Paradiſe in Yarrow.

T laſt time I came o’er the muir,

I left my love behind me:

Ye Powers! what pain do I endure,

when ſoft ideas mind me?