Will ye go to Glenkilloch, Mary,
where the burnie fa’s owre the linn ?
its murmurs are dear to me Mary,
when borne on the laſt 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 Wood-lark ſings ſweet, my Mary,
at eve, in the green leafy grove;
But his ſtrains are full ſweeter, my Mary,
when with thee I joyfully rove.
Haſte then to the glen, my Mary,
ere ſummer frae us will he gane:
O ſay that thou loveſt me Mary,
'twill eaſe my fond heart o; its pain.
