Page:Mary le More, a lamentable Irish song.pdf/4

 On the ſward ſhe reclin'd, by the green fern ſurrounded;

At her ſide ſpeckled daiſies and crow-flower abounded;

To its inmoſt recess 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 braibed,

And ſtrings of freſh daiſies hung looſe on her neck.

While with pity I gaz'd, ſhe exclaim'd, “ O my mother!

See the blood on that laſh, 'tis the blood of my brother!

They have torn his poor fleſh, and they now ſtrip another;

Tis Connor, the friend of poor Mary le More.

Tho' his locks were as white as the foam of the ocean,

Thoſe wretches ſhall find that my father is brave;

My father! ſhe cried, with the wildeſt emotion!

! no, my poor father now ſleeps in the grave:

They have toll'd his death bell, they have laid the turf o’er him;


 * white locks were bloody, no aid could reſtore him;

is gone! he is gone! and the good will deplore him,

When the blue wave of Erin hides Mary le More.