I thought his heart was link'd to mine,
So firm that it could never stray;
Yet, William, may that peace be thine,
Which thou hast ta'en frae Mary Gray.
I once was happy in his love,
No gloomy prospect made me dreary;
I thought that he would never rove,
But aye be faithfu' to his Mary.
Bright on me shone sweet pleasure's sun,
I sported in its gladdenmg ray;
But now the evening shades are come,
And soon will close round Mary Gray.
Yet, 'William, may no gloomy thought
Of my love ever make thee dreary;
I've suffer'd much—'twas dearly bought,—
Peace now has fled frae wretched Mary.—
And when some maid, more loved than me,
Thou lead'st to church on bridal day,
Perhaps the lowly grave you'll see,
Of poor neglected Mary Gray.
The deuks dang o’er.
[The first two stanzas of this song were manufactured by Burns from an old but somewhat licentious ditty called "The deuks dang o'er my daddie." The two concluding verses are by Dr. Graham of Glasgow. The tune is old, and can be traced at least as far back as Playford's "Dancing Master," 1657.]
The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout,
The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O;
Quo' our gudewife, "Let him lie there,
For he's just a paidling body, O;
He paidles out, and he paidles in,
He paidles late and early, O;
This thirty years I ha'e been his wife,
And comfort comes but sparely, O."
"Now haud your tongue," quo' our gudeman,
"And dinna be sae saucy, O,
I've seen the day, and so ha'e ye,
I was baith young and gaucy, O.
I've seen the day you butter'd my brose,
And cultered me late and early,;
But auld age is on me now,
And wow but I fin't richt sairly, O."
"I carena though ye were i' the mools,
Or dookit in a boggie, O;
I kenna the use o' the crazy auld fool,
But just to toom the coggie, O.
Gin the win' were out o' your whaisling hauze,
I'd marry again and be voggie, O;
Some bonnie young lad would be my lot,
Some rosy cheeked roggie, O."
Quo' our gudeman, "Gi'e me that rung
That's hingin' in the ingle, O;
I'se gar ye haud that sorrowfu' tongue,
Or else your lugs will tingle, O.
Gang to your bed this blessed nicht,
Or I'll be your undoing, O;"
The cannie auld wife crap out o' sicht,—
What think ye o' sic wooing, O?
Mary Shaw.
[Peter M'Arthur.—Here first printed.]
When Mary Shaw cam' to our valley,
Sweet and gentle was her form—
A lily blossom drooping palely
'Neath the frown of early storm.
Sad was her smile, but words o' pleasure
Ever left her guileless tongue;
We wonder'd aft that heaven's treasure
Fill'd the heart o' ane sae young.
She wander'd where the violet's blossom
Spent its fragrance in the shade,
Aft she bid it on her bosom
Softly rest its purpled head.
But aye it droop'd in pining sorrow,
And seem'd as if it whispering said,
Dear sister, ere the winters morrow,
Cold will be our narrow bed.
And when the year was sadly waning,
Ere the rough winds 'gan to rave,
Young JIary faded. imcompLoining,
Wasted to an early grave.
Now o'er her bed the autumn morrow
Strews the wither'd flower and leaf,
And the wind wakes its sighs of sorrow,
In concert with our tears of grief.
