Robert Burns

* * *

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
  	And leave auld Scotia’s shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
  	Across the Atlantic’s roar?

O sweet grows the lime and the orange,
  	And the apple on the pine;
But a’ the charms o’ the Indies
  	Can never equal thine.

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
  	I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
  	When I forget my vow!

O plight me your faith, my Mary,
  	And plight me your lily-white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
  	Before I leave Scotia’s strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
  	In mutual affection to join;
And curst be the cause that shall part us!
  	The hour, and the moment o’ time!