Mary Mecca

Mary Mecca,[1] Mary Mecca,

I’m fain to see thee here,

A Devon lass to fill my glass

O’ home-brewed Yorkshire beer.

I awlus said that foreigners

Sud niver mel on me;

But sike a viewly face as thine

I’d travel far to see.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,

I’m sad to see thee here,

Wheer t’ wind blaws hask[2] frae Norway

I’ t’ spring-time o’ the year.

I’d liever finnd thee sittin’,

Wi’ a bowl o’ cruds an’ cream,

Wheer t’ foxglove bells ring through the dells,

Anent a Dartmoor stream.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,

The way thou snods thy hair,

It maks my heart go dancin’

Like winnlestraws[3] i’ t’ air.

One neet I heard thee singin’,

As I cam home frae toon;

’Twas sweet as curlews makkin’ love

Agean a risin’ moon.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,

I dream o’ thy gray een;

I think on all I’ve wasted,

An’ what I might hae been.

I’m nowt but muck off t’ midden,

So all I axe is this:

Just blaw the froth from off my yal[4];

’Twill seem most like a kiss.

[1] Metcalfe.

[2] Keenly.

[3] Whisps of grass or straw.

[4] Ale.