To the Tune of, Mary Scot.
‘TWas summer and the day was fair,
Resolv’d a while to fly from care,
Beguiling thought, forgetting sorrow,
I wander’d o’er the braes of Yarrow;
Till then despising beauty’s power,
I kept my heart, my own secure:
But Cupid’s art did there deceive me,
And Mary’s charms do now enslave me.
Will cruel love no bribe receive?
No ransom take for Mary’s slave?
Her frowns of rest and hope deprive me:
Her lovely smiles like light revive me.
No bondage may with mine compare,
Since first I saw this charming fair:
This beauteous flower, this rose of Yarrow,
In nature’s gardens has no marrow.
Had I of heaven but one request,
I’d ask to ly in Mary’s breast;
There would I live or die with pleasure,
Nor spare this world one moment’s leisure;
Despising kings and all that’s great,
I’d smile at courts and courtiers fate;
My joy complete on such a marrow,
I’d dwell with her and live on Yarrow.
But tho’ such bliss I ne’er should gain;
Contented still I’ll wear my chain,
In hopes my faithful heart may move her;
For leaving life I’ll always love her.
What doubts distract a lover’s mind?
That breast, all softness, must prove kind;
And she shall yet become my marrow,
The lovely beauteous rose of Yarrow.
– New Words by Different Hands.