As I stray'd o'er the common on Cork's rugged border,|
While the dew-drops of morn the sweet primrose array'd
I saw a poor maiden whose mental disorder,
Her quick-glancing eye and wild aspect betray'd.
On the sward she reclined, by the green fern surrounded,
At her side speckled daisies and wild flow'rs abounded:
To its utmost recesses her heart had been wounded;
Her sighs were unceasing - 'twas Mary le More.
Her charms by the keen blasts 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 daisies hung loose on her neck.
While with pity I gazed, 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.
"Though 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,
"Ah! no, my poor father now sleeps in the grave!
They have toll'd his death-bell, they've hid' the turf o'er him;
His white locks were bloody! no aid could restore him,
He is gone! he is gone! and the good will deplore him,
When the blue waves of Erin hide Mary le More."
A lark, from the gold blossom'd furze that grew near her,
Now rose, and with energy caroll'd his lay;
"Hush! hush!" she continued, "the trumpet sounds clearer;
The horsemen approach! Erin's daughters away!
Ah! soldiers, 'twas foul, while the cabin was burning,
And o'er a pale father a wretch had been mourning -
Go, hide with the sea-mew, ye maids, and take warning,
Those ruffians have ruin'd poor Mary le More.
"Away, bring the ointment - O God! see those gashes!
Alas! my poor brother, come dry the big tear;
Anon we'll have vengeance for these dreadful lashes;
Already the screech-owl and raven appear.
By day the green grave, that lies under the willow,
With wild flow'rs I'll strew, and by night make my pillow,
Till the ooze and dark sea-weed, beneath the curl'd billow,
Shall furnish a death-bed for Mary le More."
Thus raved the poor maniac, in tones more heartrending
Than sanity's voice ever pour'd on my ear,
When lo! on the waste, and their march tow'rd her bending,
A troop of fierce cavalry chanced to appear;
"O ye fiends!" she exclaimed, and with wild horror started,
Then through the tall fern, loudly screaming, she darted!
With an overcharged bosom I slowly departed,
And sigh'd for the wrongs of poor Mary le More.
| Deutsche Volkslieder | Ahnenforschung | Ferienaufenthalt | Folksongs | Hymns | Genealogy | Pacific Holiday | HOME PAGE | SEARCH | Email | Bridge | Forum |