MARY LE MORE
As I stray'd o'er the common on Cork's rugged border.
While the dew-drops of morn the sweet primrose array d,
I saw a poor female, whose mental disorder,
Her quick-glancing eye and wild aspect betray'd.
On the sward she reelin'd by the green forn surrounded,
By her side speckled daisies and wild flowers abounded,
To its inmost recesses her heart had been wounded,
Her sighs were unseasing ? 'twas Mary la More.
Her charms by the keen blasts sorrow were faded
Yet the soft tinge of beauty still play d on her cheek;
Her tresses a wreath of primroses braided,
And strings of fresh daises hung loose on her neck.
Whilo with pity I gazed, she exclaimed "O my mother !
See the blood on that lash' 'tis the blood of my brother,
I'hey have torn his poor flesh!?& they now strip another
'Tis Connor? tho friend of poor Mary le More.
Though his locks were as white as the foam of the ocean
Those wretches shall fine that my father is brave ;
My father! she cried with tne wildest emotion,
Ah, no, my poor father now sleep in the grave ;
They have toll'd his death bell, they've laid the turf o'er
His white locks were b'oody, on aid could restore him,
He is gone! he is gone! and the good will deplore him,
When the blue waves of Erin bide Mary le More.
A lark from the gold blossom'd furso that grow near her,
Now rose, and with energy caroll'd his lay ;
Hush: hush !' she continued,' tho trumpet sounds clearer
The horsemen approach: Erin's daughter's away !
Ah ! soldiers, twas foul, while the cabin was burning.
And o'er a palo father a wretch had been mourning?
Go hide with the sea-mew, ye maids and take Warning,
Those ruffians have ruin'd poor Mary le More.
Away ! bring the ointment?O, God! see the gashes!
Alas ! my poor brother ! come dry the big tear!
Anon we'll have vengeance for those dreadful lashes,
Already the screech-owl and raven appear,
By day tho green grave, that lies under the willow,
With wild flow'rs I'll strow, and by night make my pillow
Till the ooze and dark sea-weed, beneath tho curl'd bil
Shall furnish a death-bed for Mary le More.
Thus raved the poor maniac, in tones more heart-rending
Than sanity's voice ever poured on my ear ;
When lo ! on tho waste, and the march towords her
A troop of fierce cavalry chanced to appear,
'O, the.fiends she exclaimed, and with wild horror start-
Then through the tall [ ] loudly screaming darted ;
With an overcharged bosom slowly departed,
And sigh'd for tho wrongs of poor Mary la More
Robt. Mintosh Printer.96 King Street Calton.
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Probable date published:
1849- shelfmark: RB.m.169(007)
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