No homeward scene near me,
No comrade to cheer me,
I cling to my dearie,
And sigh till I marry.
Sing ever O, and ra-ill O,
Ra-ill O,
Sing ever O, and ra-ill O,
Was ever a May like my fairy?
My youth with the stranger,[44]
Next on mountains a ranger,
I pass'd--but no change, here,
Will sever from Mary.
What ringlets discover
Their gloss thy brows over--
Forget thee! thy lover,
Ah, first shall they bury.
Thy aspect of kindness,
Thy graces they bind us,
And, like Feili,[45] remind us
Of a heaven undreary.
Than the treasures of Spain
I would toil more to gain
Thy love--but my pain,
Ah, 'tis cruel, my Mary!
When the shell is o'erflowing,
And its dew-drops are glowing,
No, never, thy snow on
A slander shall tarry.
When viols are playing,
And dancers are Maying,
My eyes may be straying,
But my soul is with Mary.
That white hand of thine
Might I take into mine,
Could I ever repine,
Or from tenderness vary?
No, never! no, never!
My troth on 't for ever,
Lip to lip, I 'd deliver
My being to Mary.