Written to a Gaelic Air.
FORTUNE, frowning most severe,
Forced me frae my native dwellin,
Parting wi my friens so dear,
Cost me many a bitter tear ;
But, like the clouds of early day,
Soon my sorrows fled away,
Whan, blooming sweet and smiling gay,
I met my winsome Mary.
Wha can sit wi gloomy brow,
Blest wi sic a charming lassie ?
Native scenes, I think on you,
Yet the change I canna rue;
Wand'ring many a weary mile,
Fortune seem'd to low'r the while,
But now she's gien me, for the toil,
My bonnie winsome Mary.
Tho our riches are but few,
Faithfu love is aye a treasure ;
Ever cheery, kind, an true,
Nane but her I e'er can loe.
Hear me, a ye powers above,
Powers of sacred truth and love
While I live I'll constant prove
To my dear winsome Mary.
This song first appeared in the Glasgow Nightingale of 1806, page 150. See the first Note to No. 13.—Ed.
[Semple 118]