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As I stray'd o'er the common on Corks rugged border,

While the dew-drops of morn the sweet primrose array’d.

I saw a poor female, whose mental disorder

Her quick glancing eye and wild aspect betrayed,

On the sward she reclined, by the green fern surrounded,

At her side speckl’d daises and Wild flowers abounded,

To its inmost recesses her heart had been wounded,

Her sighs were unceasing—‘twas Mary le More.

Her charms by the keen blast of sorrow were faded

Yet the soft tinge of beauty still play’d on her cheek;

Her tresses a wreath of pale primroses braided,

And strings of fresh daises hung loose round her neck,

While with pity I gazed, she exclaimed, “O my Mother,

See the blood on that lash! ’tis the blood of my brother;

They have torn his poor flesh, and the now strip another—

‘Tis Conner, the friend of poor Mary le More.

“Though his locks were as white as the foam of the ocean,