Mary Morison.

Tune - "Bide ye yet."



I.

    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!

II.

    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 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."

III.

    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.

Robert Burns

Robert Burns, also known as Rabbie Burns, the Bard of Ayrshire, and various other names and epithets, was a Scottish poet and lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. Born on January 25, 1759, in Alloway, he is best known for works such as 'Auld Lang Syne,' 'Scots Wha Hae,' and 'A Red, Red Rose.' He passed away on July 21, 1796, in Dumfries.

Robert Burns

The Lover's Morning Salute To His Mistress.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Lament, Occasioned By The Unfortunate Issue Of A Friend's Amour.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

She Says She Loves Me Best Of A'.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On Captain Francis Grose.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Highland Mary.

Tune - "Katherine Ogie."


I.

    Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
        The castle o' Montgomery,
    Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
        Your waters never drumlie!
    There Simmer first unfauld her robes,
        And there the langest tarry;
    For there I took the last farewell
        O' my sweet Highland Mary.

II.

    How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
        How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
    As underneath their fragrant shade
        I clasp'd her to my bosom!
    The golden hours, on angel wings,
        Flew o'er me and my dearie;
    For dear to me, as light and life,
        Was my sweet Highland Mary!

III.

    Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,

Robert Burns

'Twas Na Her Bonnie Blue Een.

Tune - *Laddie, lie near me.*


I.

    'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin;
    Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing:
    'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us,
    'Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' kindness.

II.

    Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
    Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me!
    But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever,
    Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.

III.

    Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
    And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest!
    And thou'rt the angel that never can alter -
    Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.

Robert Burns

To Mary Campbell.

I.

    Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
        And leave old Scotia's shore?
    Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
        Across th' Atlantic's roar?

II.

    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.

III.

    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!

IV.

    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.

V.

    We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
        In mut...

Robert Burns

My Bonnie Mary.

Tune - "Go fetch to me a pint o' wine."


I.

    Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
        An' fill it in a silver tassie;
    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.

II.

    The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
        The glittering spears are ranked ready;
    The shouts o' war are heard afar,
        The battle closes thick and bloody;
    It's not the roar o' sea or shore
        Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
    Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar,
        It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

Robert Burns

To Mary In Heaven.

Tune - "Death of Captain Cook."


I.

    Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray,
        That lov'st to greet the early morn,
    Again thou usherest in the day
        My Mary from my soul was torn.
    O Mary! dear departed shade!
        Where is thy place of blissful rest?
    Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
        Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

II.

    That sacred hour can I forget,
        Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
    Where by the winding Ayr we met,
        To live one day of parting love!
    Eternity cannot efface
        Those records dear of transports past;
    Thy image at our last embrace;
        Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

III.

    Ayr, gurgli...

Robert Burns

To Mary.

Tune - "Could aught of song."



I.

    Could aught of song declare my pains,
        Could artful numbers move thee,
    The muse should tell, in labour'd strains,
        O Mary, how I love thee!
    They who but feign a wounded heart
        May teach the lyre to languish;
    But what avails the pride of art,
        When wastes the soul with anguish?

II.

    Then let the sudden bursting sigh
        The heart-felt pang discover;
    And in the keen, yet tender eye,
        O read th' imploring lover.
    For well I know thy gentle mind
        Disdains art's gay disguising;
    Beyond what Fancy e'er refin'd,
        The voice of nature prizing.

Robert Burns