'Twas nae her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing: 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kind ness. Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, END OF VOL. XXXVIII. |