The Book of Scottish Song/Mary Gill

Mary Gill.

[Patrick Knox.—Here first printed.]

Ha'e ye na seen the miller's maid,
The bonnie Mary Gill?
Wha wins below the braes o' Braid,
Fu' like a lily newly spread,
In shelter o' the hill.

I wish it had na been my fate,
To look on her mysel';
For that put me in sic a state,
That peace or rest I canna get,
Sin' meetin' Mary Gill.

I dander'd down, the ither nicht
Fu' little dreadin' ill,
Whan my heart's ease whuff'd out like licht,
An' left me in a pretty plicht,
Wi' bonnie Mary Gill!

I first felt saucy at the quean,
An' tried, wi' a' my skill,
To think that fairer I had seen,
While aye my twa unruly een
Would glance at Mary Gill.

Then something gaed about my heart,
That made it saft an' still;
I grew fu' anxious to depart,
But sat unable an' inert,
Bewitch'd by Mary Gill!

Neist raise a flutter in my breast,
I kent na how to quell;
I hitch'd about, an' could na rest,
An' fearin' notice, thocht it best
To part frae Mary Gill.

But a' the road I stoiter'd hame,
An' three times clean gaed wil'
The miller's maid got a' the blame,
Yet I kept sichan aye the name
O' bonnie Mary Gill.

But a' the nicht, nae wink I got,
But pecht an' gran'd my fill;
An' felt my noddle a' afloat,
An' ilka ither thing forgot
Exceptin' Mary Gill.

I canna say I'll nae gang back
Nor can I say I will;
But my puir heart is on the rack,
While a' the niebours hae their crack
O' me an' Mary Gill.

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