Mary.
By John Hartley
My Mary's as sweet as the flowers that grow,
By the side of the brooklet that runs near her cot;
Her brow is as fair as the fresh fallen snow,
And the gleam of her smile can be never forgot.
Her figure is lithe and as graceful I ween
As was Venus when Paris awarded the prize,
She's the wiles of a fairy, - the step of a queen,
And the light of true love's in her bonny brown eyes.
To see was to love her, - to love was to mourn, -
For her heart was as fickle as April days
When you'd given her all and asked some return,
You got but a taste of her false winsome ways.
You never could tell, though you knew her so well,
That her sweet fascinations were nothing but lies,
Like a fool you loved on when of hope there was none
And your heart sought relief in her bonny brown eyes.
Yet 'tis sad to relate, though unhappy my fate,
I would sacrifice all that on earth I hold dear,
If she would but consent to be true, and content,
With the heart that is faithful when distant or near.
Through pleasure and pain we together again,
May never commingle our smiles and our sighs,
But when sleeping or waking, I struggle in vain,
To forget the sweet maid with the bonny brown eyes.
Oh, Mary, my love! with the coo of the dove,
I would woo thee to win thee, and ever to live,
Where thy bright loving face and thy figure of grace,
Could surround me with joys that none other can give.
Oh, say but a word, and I'll fly like a bird,
To the one whom my heart will beat for till it dies,
Bid me come to my home, bid me come, bid me come,
And bask in the light of thy bonny brown eyes.