Mary, dear Mary, oh! never say no.
But speak with thine own voice, so gentle and low,
And look in mine eyes with thine own of true blue,
Whilst you whisper—Oh! William, I dearly love you.

But Mary has turned from her wooer away—
She plucked the wild rose from its prickly spray,
The brier it wounded—Ah! maiden, and thou
Hast wounded another—pale, pale is his brow.

And is it so, Mary?—Heaven help me! I go;—
This moment of agony may you ne'er know!—
He sprang to his feet—and his look of farewell
Was on Mary's vain heart like a withering spell.

Some said, as a sailor afar he had sailed,
And her light form grew thinner, her rosy cheek paled;
The old mother sighed, for she well knew the trace
Of death on her daughter's once beautiful face.

The summer hath passed—and the winter is o'er,
Again spring is clust'ring the buds round the door;
Tho' balmy and sweet be the May's gentle breath
Poor Mary still withers, it brings to her—death.

The brier is blooming as when they last met,
But the eyes of a mother with tears are still wet;
It hath bloomed and hath faded, its pale leaves are shed,
And William long weeps o'er the loved and the dead.