Mary Shearer

She's aff and awa' like the lang summer day,

And our hearts and our hills are now lanesome and dreary;

The sun-blinks o' June will come back ower the brae,

But lang for blythe Mary fu' mony may weary!

For mair hearts than mine

Kenn'd o' nane that were dearer;

But nane mair will pine

For the sweet Mary Shearer!

She cam' wi' the spring just like ane o' its flowers,

And the blue bell and Mary baith blossom'd thegither;

The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours,

But the rose o' the valley nae mair will come hither!

Their sweet breath is fled—

Her kind looks still endear her;

For the heart maun be dead

That forgets Mary Shearer!

Than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung;

An e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced on a lover;

Sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying tongue,

Nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed cover.

O! he maun be bless'd

Wha's allowed to be near her;

For the fairest and best

O' her kind's Mary Shearer!

But farewell, Glenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch Striven,

My country and kin!—since I've sae lov'd the stranger;

Where she's been maun be either a pine or a heaven,

—Sae across the braid warld for a while I'm a ranger!

Though I try to forget—

In my heart still I'll wear her:—

For mine may be yet,

—Name and a'—Mary Shearer!