Copyright  © 2004 by Paul Howarth
All rights reserved

Oh, Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see
That makes the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yes tre'en when to the trembling string
The dance gaed round the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd and said, amang them a'
"Ye are not Mary Morison."

Oh, Mary canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake would gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his
Whose only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown:
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison,
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

By Arthur Sullivan
Generated by NoteWorthy Composer

Mary Morison
Staff-1
Vocal
Right Hand
Left Hand