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!
(illegible text)! no, my poor father now ſleeps in the grave:
They have toll'd his death bell, they have laid the turf o’er him;
(illegible text); white locks were bloody, no aid could reſtore him;
(illegible text) is gone! he is gone! and the good will deplore him,
When the blue wave of Erin hides Mary le More.
