The sun hadna peep'd frae behint the dark billow,
The slow sinking moon half illumined the scene;
As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow,
An' wander'd to muse on the days that were gane.
Sweet hope seem'd to smile o'er ideas romantic,
An' gay were the dreams that my soul would beguile;
But my eyes fill'd wi' tears as I view'd the Atlantic,
An' thought on my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

Though far frae my hame in a tropical wildwood,
Yet the fields o' my forefathers rose on my view;
An' I wept when I thought on the days of my childhood,
An' the vision was painful the brighter it grew.
Sweet days! when my bosom with rapture was swelling,
Though I knew it not then, it was love made me smile;
Oh! the snaw wreath is pure where the moonbeams are dwelling,
Yet as pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

Now far in the east the sun slowly rising,
Brightly gilded the top of the tall cabbage tree;
And sweet was the scene such wild beauties comprising,
As might have fill'd the sad mourner with rapture and glee.
But my heart felt nae rapture, nae pleasant emotion,
The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been seal'd;
I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy ocean,
And wept for my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

The orange was bathed in the dews o' the morning,
An' the bright draps bespangled the clustering vine;
White were the blossoms the lime-tree adorning,
An' brown was the apple that grew on the pine.
Were I as free as an Indian chieftain,
Sic beautiful scenes might give pleasure the while;
But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin',
An' a slave I 'm to Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

When the mirk cloud o' fortune aboon my head gathers,
An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er fell before;
Oh! then I 'll revisit the land of my fathers,
An' clasp to this bosom the lass I adore.
Hear me, ye angels, who watch o'er my maiden,
(Like ane o' yoursels she is free frae a' guile),
Pure as was love in the garden o' Eden,
Sae pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.