Will ye go to Glenkilloch, Mary,where the burnie fa's owre the linn?Its murmurs are dearer to me, Mary,when borne on the fast breathing win'.The sun sheds his beams, my Mary.on the white blossom'd Hawthorn tree;But his beams are nought to me, Mary,compar'd with thy love-glancing e'e.
The woodlark sings sweet my Mary,at eve, in me green leafy grove;But his stains are still sweeter. my Mary,when with thee I joyfully roveHaste then to the glen, my Mary.ere summer frae us will be gane:O say that thou lovest me, Mary,'twill ease my fond heart o' its pain.
Divider from 'The Linnet', a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819
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