Poem by 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!

1. It Is Na, Jean, Thy Bonnie Face
2. Farewell, Thou Stream
3. Sleep’st Thou, or Wak’st Thou
4. Eppie M’Nab
5. Mark Yonder Pomp

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