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　　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 blithely 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 thro＇ the lighted ha＇,
       
　　To thee my fancy took its wing,
       
　　I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
       
　　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 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 faut is loving thee?
       
　　If love for love thou wilt na gie,
       
　　At least be pity to me shown,
       
　　A thought ungentle canna be
       
　　The thought o＇ Mary Morison.