The Book of Scottish Song/Mary 3

Mary.

[Words by James Macdonald.—Music by Andrew Armour.—Here first printed.]

The winter's cauld and cheerless blast
May rob the feckless tree, Mary,
And lay the young flowers in the dust,
Whar anee they bloom'd in glee, Mary.
It canna chill my bosom's hopes—
It canna alter thee, Mary;
The summer o' thy winsome face
Is aye the same to me, Mary.

The gloom o' life, its cruel strife
May wear me fast awa', Mary;
An' lea'e me, like a cauld, cauld corpse
Amang the drifting snaw, Mary.
Yet 'mid the drift, wert thou but nigh,
I'd fauld my weary e'e, Mary;
And deem the wild and raging storm
A laverock's sang o' glee, Mary.

My heart can lie in ruin's dust,
And fortune's winter dree, Mary;
While o'er it shines the diamond ray
That glances frae thine e'e, Mary.
The rending pangs and waes o' life,
The dreary din o' care, Mary,
I'll welcome, gin they lea'e but thee
My lanely lot to share, Mary.

As o'er yon hill the evening star
Is wiling day awa', Mary,
Sae sweet and fair art thou to me
At life's sad gloamin' fa', Mary.
It gars me greet wi' vera joy,
Whene'er I think on thee, Mary,
That sic a heart, sae true as thine,
Should e'er ha'e cared for me, Mary.

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