O Mary, at thy window be,
	It is the wish’d, the trysted hour;
Those smiles and glances let me see,
	That make the miser’s treasure poor:
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,
	A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
	The lovely Mary Morison!

Yestreen when to the trembling string
	The dance gaed through the lighted ha’,
To thee my fancy took its wing,
	I sat, but neither heard, nor saw:
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
	And yon the toast of a’ the town,
I sigh’d, and said amang them a’,
	‘Ye are na Mary Morison.’

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
	Wha for thy sake wad gladly die!
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
	Whase only faute is loving thee!
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
	At least be pity to me shown;
A thought undgentle canna be
	The thought o’ Mary Morison.