Mary, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow?See' a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw;Blythe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs o' Jura,Blythe singa the mavis in ilka green shaw!How can this heart ever mair think o' pleasure?Simmer may smile. but delight I have nane;Cauld in the grave lies my heart's only treasure,Nature seems dead, since my Jamie is gane.
This 'kerchief he gave me, a true-lover's token,Dear. dear to me, was the gift for his sake;I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken,Hope died wi' Jamie, and left it to break!Sighing for him, I lie down in the e'ening;Sighing for him, I awake in the morn;Spent were my days, all in secret repining;Peace to this bosom can never return.
Oft have we wandered in sweetest retirement,Telling our loves neath the moon's silent beam;Sweet were our meetings of tender endearments,But fled are these joys like a fleet-passing dream!Cruel remembrance! ah, why wilt thou wreck me;Brooding o'er joys that for ever are flown?Cruel remembrance! in pity forsake;Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown.
Divider from 'The Linnet', a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819
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