“ Oh Mary! thou’rt sae mild and sweet, My very being clings about thee ; This heart would rather cease to beat, Than beat a lonely thing without thee. How dear the lair on yon hill-cheek, Where many a weary hour I tarry ! For there I see the twisting reek Rise frae the cot where dwells my Mary. When Phœbus keeks outower the muir, His gowden locks a’ streaming gaily— When morn has breathed her fragrance pure, And life and joy ring through the valley— I drive my flocks to yonder brook, The feeble in my arms I carry, And every lammie’s harmless look Brings to my mind my bonny Mary. The exile may forget his home, Where blooming youth to manhood grew ; The bee forget the honey-comb, Nor wi’ the spring his toil renew; The sun may lose his light and heat, The planets in their rounds miscarry, But my fond heart shall cease to beat. When I forget my bonny Mary.”