Mary Scot, p.67.

[Tea-Table Miscellany Contents]

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 heav’n, relate, 

If looking o’er the rolls of fate, 

Did you there see me mark’d to marrow 

Mary Scot the flower of Yarrow? 

– 

Ah no! her form’s too heavenly fair, 

Her love the Gods above must share; 

While mortals with despair explore her, 

And at a 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 mine anguish, 

She is too good to let me languish: 

With success crown’d, I’ll not envy 

The folks who dwell above the sky; 

When Mary Scot’s become my marrow, 

We’ll make a paradise on Yarrow

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