Mary is My Only Joy

Mary is my only joy,
Mary is blithe and Mary is coy,
Mary's the gowd where there's nae alloy ;
Though black — yet O she's bonnie,
Her breath is the birken bower o' spring,
Her lips the young rose opening,
And her hair is the hue of the raven's wing ;
She's black, but O she's bonnie.

The star that gilds the evening sky,
Though bright its ray, may never vie
Wi' Mary's dark and liquid eye ;
Though black, yet O she's bonnie.
In yon green wood there is a bower,
Where lies a bed of witching power,
Under that bed there blooms a flower,
That steals the heart unwary !

O there is a charm, and there is a spell.
That, O and alack ! I know too well, —
A pang that the tongue may hardly tell.

Though felt baith late and early !
The beauteous flower beneath the tree,
The spell of the wildest witcherye,
The gowd and the gear, an' a' to me,
Is my black but my bonnie Mary !