Happy 's the love which meets return,
When in soft flames souls equal burn;
But words are wanting to discover
The torments of a hopeless lover.
Ye registers of heav'n, relate,
If looking o'er the rolls of fate,
Did you there see, mark'd for my marrow,
Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow?

Ah no! her form 's too heav'nly fair,
Her love the gods above must share,
While mortals with despair explore her,
And at a distance due adore her.
O, lovely maid! my doubts beguile,
Revive and bless me with a smile;
Alas! if not, you 'll soon debar a
Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow.

Be hush, ye fears! I 'll not despair,
My Mary 's tender as she 's fair;
Then I 'll go tell her all my anguish,
She is too good to let me languish.
With success crown'd, I 'll not envy
The folks who dwell above the sky;
When Mary Scott 's become my marrow,
We 'll make a paradise on Yarrow.