This text comes from The Scottish Minstrel (Second Series), a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
The morn was fair—the skies were clear—
No breath came o'er the sea,
When Mary left her Highland cot,
And wander'd forth with me:
Though flowers deck'd the mountain side,
And fragrance filled the vale—
By far the sweetest flower there
Was the Rose of Allandale.
Where'er I wander'd, east or west,
Though fate began to lower,
A solace still was she to me
In sorrow's lonely hour.
When tempests lash'd our gallant bark,
And rent her shivering sail,
One maiden form withstood the storm,
'Twas the Rose of Allandale.
And when my fever'd lips were parch'd
On Afric's burning sand,
She whisper'd hopes of happiness
And tales of distant land:
My life had been a wilderness,
Unblest by fortune's gale,
Had fate not link'd my lot to hers,
The Rose of Allandale.