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

     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.

     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!

     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.

     We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
     In mutual affection to join;
     And curst be the cause that shall part us! 
     The hour and the moment o’ time!

Song—­My Highland Lassie, O

     Tune—­“The deuks dang o’er my daddy.”

     Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair,
     Shall ever be my muse’s care: 
     Their titles a’ arc empty show;
     Gie me my Highland lassie, O.

     Chorus.—­Within the glen sae bushy, O,
     Aboon the plain sae rashy, O,
     I set me down wi’ right guid will,
     To sing my Highland lassie, O.

     O were yon hills and vallies mine,
     Yon palace and yon gardens fine! 
     The world then the love should know
     I bear my Highland Lassie, O.

     But fickle fortune frowns on me,
     And I maun cross the raging sea! 
     But while my crimson currents flow,
     I’ll love my Highland lassie, O.

     Altho’ thro’ foreign climes I range,
     I know her heart will never change,
     For her bosom burns with honour’s glow,
     My faithful Highland lassie, O.

     For her I’ll dare the billow’s roar,
     For her I’ll trace a distant shore,
     That Indian wealth may lustre throw
     Around my Highland lassie, O.

     She has my heart, she has my hand,
     By secret troth and honour’s band! 
     Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
     I’m thine, my Highland lassie, O.

     Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! 
     Farewell the plain sae rashy, O! 
     To other lands I now must go,
     To sing my Highland lassie, O.

Epistle To A Young Friend

     May __, 1786.

     I Lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
     A something to have sent you,
     Tho’ it should serve nae ither end
     Than just a kind memento: 
     But how the subject-theme may gang,
     Let time and chance determine;
     Perhaps it may turn out a sang: 
     Perhaps turn out a sermon.