Will Ye Go To The Indies, My Mary

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia's shore;
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th' Atlantic roar.

O sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;
But a' the charms o' the Indies
Can never equal thine.

I hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true;
And sae may the heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!

O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join:
And curst be the cause that shall part us,
The hour and the moment o' time!