Poor Mary.
[Angus Fletcher.—Tune, "A' body's like to get married but me."]
I met my dear lassie short syne in yon dale,
But deep was her sigh, and her cheek it was pale;
And sad the saft smile that was heaven to see:
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.
A feverish heat has deprived o' their bloom
Her lips, ance sae rosy, exhaling perfume;
An' changed is the glance o' her blythe hazel e'e,—
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.
'Twas thus a fair floweret adorn'd my lone walk,
But chill blew the east on its tender green stalk:
No more its sweet blossoms allure the wild bee—
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.
If I were but destined to ca' her my ain,
I'd shield her sae fondly frae sna', win', an' rain;
And, nightly, this bosom her pillow wad be:—
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.
Detraction and malice—society's pest!
I know 'tis your venom that pains her pure breast;
But, O for that haven, 'yont life's stormy sea,
Where Mary, I trust, shall be happy wi' me!