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The Irish maniac/Mary Morrison

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For other versions of this work, see Mary Morison.
3267574The Irish maniac — Mary MorrisonRobert Burns (1759-1796)

MARY MORISON;

O Mary at thy window be,
It is the wish'd the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor,
How blithly wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

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.