ROBERT BURNS

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town,

I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 'Ye arena 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 faut is loving thee ? If love for love thou wiltna gie,

At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

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��494- J ean

|F a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And monie a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air: There 's not a bonnie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green ; There's not a bonnie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

494. airts] points of the compass. row] roll.

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