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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!!!