For other versions of this work, see Poor Mary (Fletcher).
POOR MARY.
Tune—A' body is like to get married but me.
I met my dear lassie short syne in yon dale,
But deep was her sigh, and her click it was pale;
And sad the saft smile that was heaven to see:
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy like me.
But deep was her sigh, and her click 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 sa rosy, exhaling perfume,
And chang'd is the glance o' her blythe hazel ee,
Poor Mary I fear, is unhappy like me.
Her lips, ance sa rosy, exhaling perfume,
And chang'd is the glance o' her blythe hazel ee,
Poor Mary I fear, is unhappy like me.
'Twas thus a fair flow'ret adorn'd my 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.
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 destin'd to ca' her my ain,
I'd shield her sae fondly frae sea, win, and rain;
And nightly this bosom her pillow wad be;
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy like me.
I'd shield her sae fondly frae sea, win, and 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, oh for that haven, yont life's stormy sea,
Where Mary, I trust, shall be happy wi' me.
I know 'tis your venom that pains her pure breast,
But, oh for that haven, yont life's stormy sea,
Where Mary, I trust, shall be happy wi' me.