Mary Shaw.
[Peter M'Arthur.—Here first printed.]
When Mary Shaw cam' to our valley,
Sweet and gentle was her form—
A lily blossom drooping palely
'Neath the frown of early storm.
Sad was her smile, but words o' pleasure
Ever left her guileless tongue;
We wonder'd aft that heaven's treasure
Fill'd the heart o' ane sae young.
She wander'd where the violet's blossom
Spent its fragrance in the shade,
Aft she bid it on her bosom
Softly rest its purpled head.
But aye it droop'd in pining sorrow,
And seem'd as if it whispering said,
Dear sister, ere the winters morrow,
Cold will be our narrow bed.
And when the year was sadly waning,
Ere the rough winds 'gan to rave,
Young JIary faded. imcompLoining,
Wasted to an early grave.
Now o'er her bed the autumn morrow
Strews the wither'd flower and leaf,
And the wind wakes its sighs of sorrow,
In concert with our tears of grief.