All night, by the pathway that crosses the moor,
I waited on Mary, I linger'd till morn,
Yet thought her not false--she had ever been true
To her tryst by the old blighted thorn.
I had heard of Love lighting to darken the heart,
Fickle, fleeting as wind and the dews of the morn;
Such were not my fears, though I sigh'd all night long,
And wept 'neath the old blighted thorn.
The snows, that were deep, had awaken'd my dread,
I mark'd as footprints far below by the burn;
I sped to the valley--I found her deep sunk,
On her way to the old blighted thorn!
I whisper'd, "My Mary!"--she spoke not: I caught
Her hand, press'd her pale cheek--'twas icy and cold;
Then sunk on her bosom--its throbbings were o'er--
Nor knew how I quitted my hold.