American Old Time Song Lyrics: 09 Mary Le More

Theater, Music-Hall, Nostalgic, Irish & Historic Old Songs, Volume 9

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As I strayed o'er the common on Cork's rugged border,
While the dew-drops of morn the sweet primrose arrayed,
I saw a poor female, whose mental disorder,
Her quick glancing eye and wild aspect betrayed;
On the sward she reclined, by the green fern surrounded.
At her Bide speckled daisies and wild flowers abounded ;
To its inmost recesses, her heart had been wounded,
Her sighs were unceasing-'twas Mary Le More.

Her charms by the keen blasts of sorrow were faded,
Yet the soft tinge of beauty still played on her cheek.
Her tresses a wreath of primroses braided,
And strings of fresh daisies hung loose on her neck;
While with pity I gazed, she exclaimed: " O my mother :
See the blood on that lash! 'tis the blood of my brother;
They have torn his poor flesh!-and they now strip anotherĀ­'Tis Connor-the friend of poor Mary Le More."

Though his locks were as white as the foam of the ocean.
Those wretches shall find that my father is brave;
My father! she cried, with the wildest emotion,
Ah, no ! my poor father now sleeps in the grave ;
They have tolled his death bell, they've laid the turf o'er him,
His white locks were bloody, no aid could restore him;
He is gone! he Is gone! and the good will deplore him,
When the blue waves of Erin hide Mary Le More."

A lark, from the gold blossomed furze that grew near her.
Now rose and with energy carolled his lay;
"Hush I hush!" she continued, " the trumpet sounds clearer,
The horsemen approach! Erin's daughter's away t
Ah ! soldiers 'twas foul, while the cabin was burning.
And o'er a pale father a wretch had been mourning-
Go hide with the sea-mew, ye maids, and take warning,
Those ruffians have ruined 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 the green grave that lies under the willow.
With wild flowers I'll strew, and by night make my pillow,
'Till the ooze and dark sea-weed beneath the curled billow,
Shall furuish 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 I on the waste, and on the march towards her bending.
A troop of fierce cavalry chanced to appear;
"Oh ! the fiends !" she exclaimed, and with wild horror started,
Then through the tall fern, loudly screaming, she darted ;
With an overcharged bosom I slowly departed.
And sighed for the wrongs of poor Mary Le More.
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