THE IRISH MANIAC.
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,
Those wretches shall find that that my father is brave.
My father she cried, with the wildest emotion,
“Ah, no! my poor father now' sleeps in the grave.
The have tolled his death bell, they have laid 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 earol’d his lay,
“Hush hush” she continued, “the trumpet sounds clearer,
The horsrmen aoproach! 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 seamew ye maids and take warning,
Those rrffians 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 those dreadful lashes;
Already the screech-owl and ravens appear.
By day the green grave that lies under the willow
With wild flowers I'll straw, 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 most heart-rending
Than sanity's voice ever pour'd on my ear,
When lo! on the waste, and their march towards her bending
A troop of fierce cavalry chanced to appear.
“Oye fiends!" she exclaimed, and with wild horror started.
With an overcharged bosom I slowly departed,
And sighed for the wrongs of poor Mary le More.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse