The Mavis (1819, Falkirk)/The Flower of Yarrow

Happy’s the love which meets return,
When in ſoft flames ſouls equal burn;
But words are wanting to diſcover
The torments of a hopeleſs lover.
​Ye regiſters of time relate,
If looking o’er the rolls of Fate;
Did you there ſee me mark’d to marrow
Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow?

Ah no! her form’s too heav’nly fair,
Her love the greateſt ſure muſt ſhare,
While others with deſpair explore her,
And, at diſtance due, adore her.
O lovely maid! my doubts beguile,
Revive and bleſs me with a ſmile;
Alas! if not, you’ll ſoon debar a
Sighing ſwain the banks of Yarrow.

Be huſh, ye fears, I’ll not deſpair,
My Mary’s tender as ſhe’s fair.
Then I’ll go tell her all my anguiſh,
She is too good to let me languiſh:
With ſucceſs crown’d, I’ll not envy
Thoſe folks who live in ſtation high:
When Mary Scott’s become my marrow;
We’ll make a Paradiſe in Yarrow.