Mary’s Grave.
[T. M. Cunningham.]
Ye briery bields, where roses blaw!
Ye flow'ry fells, an' sunny braes!
Whase scroggie bosoms foster'd a'
The pleasures o' my youthfu' days.
Amang your leafy simmer claes,
And blushin' blooms, the zephyr flies,
Syne wings awa', and wanton plays
Around the grave whare Mary lies.
Nae mair your bonnie birken bowers,
Your streamlets fair, and woodlands gay,
Can cheer the weary winged hours
As up the glen I joyless stray:
For a' my hopes ha'e flown away,
And when they reach'd their native skies,
Left me, amid the world o' wae,
To weet the grave whare Mary lies.
It is na beauty's fairest bloom,
It is na maiden charms consign'd,
And hurried to an early tomb,
That wrings my heart and clouds my mind;
But sparkling wit, and sense refin'd,
And spotless truth without disguise,
Make me with sighs enrich the wind
That fans the grave whare Mary lies.