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MARY OF GLENKILLOCH.
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 saft 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 the green leafy grove;
But his strains are still sweeter, my Mary
when with thee I joyfully rove.
Haste then to the glen, my Mary,
ere summer frae us will be gane:
O say that thou lovest me, Mary,
ARE YE SLEEPIN’ MAGGIE.
O are ye sleepin’ Maggie?
O are ye sleepin’ Maggie?
Let me in, for loud the linn
Is roarin’ o’er the warlock craigie.
