That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blythely wad I bide the stoure, bear, struggle
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string Last night
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', went
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, fine