Poetry > Ballads in the Cumberland dialect

CUMBEBIAND BALLADS.
167
Thou art the sweet’ner o’ my life;
Thou art Golconda’s wealth to me:
And by thy bosom, pure as white,
I’ll love thee, Mary, till I dee!
Oh, were we on some desert Isle,
Where human foot ne’er trode before,
My arms shou’d be thy couch a’ day,
And I wou’d gaze, and love thee more!
I’d shield thee frae ilk angry blast,
Thou dearest gem on earth to me!
For by thy speaking een, I swear,
To love thee, Mary, till I dee!
The lavrock hails the rising mom;
The gowdspink lo’es the thorny spray;
The cushat coos within the wood;
The plover seeks the pasture grey:
I envy these what these enjoy,
But hope ne’er wares a smile on me;
1 hug the chain that gies me pam,
For I maun love thee till I dee.
END OF THE BALLADS.