III.
Mary, I’m thine wi’ a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o’ the dearest!
And thou’rt the angel that never can alter—
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.
CCLIII.
HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS.
Tune—“John Anderson, my jo.”
[“I am at this moment,” says Burns to Thomson, when he sent him this song, “holding high converse with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on a prosaic dog, such as you are.” Yet there is less than the poet’s usual inspiration in this lyric, for it is altered from an English one.]
I.
How cruel are the parents
Who riches only prize,
And, to the wealthy booby,
Poor woman sacrifice!
Meanwhile the hapless daughter
Has but a choice of strife;
To shun a tyrant father’s hate,
Become a wretched wife.
II.