7
Yestreen when to the trembling string,
The dance gaes' thro' the lighted ha'
To the my fancy took its wing,
I sat but neither heard nor saw.
Tho' t' was fair and that was braw
And you the toast of a the town,
I sigh'd and said amang them a, —
"Ye are nae Mary Morison."
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou hreak that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee ?
If love for love thou wilt on gie.
at least ha pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be,
The thought o' Mary Morison.
THE DE'ILS awa' wi' the EXCISEMAN.
Thee deil cam fiddling through the town,
And danced awa wi' the Exciseman;
And ilk auld wife cry'd, "Auld Mahoun,
"We wish you luck o' the prize man,
chorus.
We'll mak' our maut, and brew our drink,
