Mary, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow? See' a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw; Blythe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs o' Jura, Blythe singa the mavis in ilka green shaw! How can this heart ever mair think o' pleasure? Simmer may smile. but delight I have nane; Cauld in the grave lies my heart's only treasure, Nature seems dead, since my Jamie is gane.
This 'kerchief he gave me, a true-lover's token, Dear. dear to me, was the gift for his sake; I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken, Hope died wi' Jamie, and left it to break! Sighing for him, I lie down in the e'ening; Sighing for him, I awake in the morn; Spent were my days, all in secret repining; Peace to this bosom can never return.
Oft have we wandered in sweetest retirement, Telling our loves neath the moon's silent beam; Sweet were our meetings of tender endearments, But fled are these joys like a fleet-passing dream! Cruel remembrance! ah, why wilt thou wreck me; Brooding o'er joys that for ever are flown? Cruel remembrance! in pity forsake; Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown.
Divider from 'The Linnet', a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819
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