Voices from the crowd and town lyrics. By Charles Mackay. Fifth and revised edition |
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MARY AND LADY MARY;
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 | Voices from the crowd |  |
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MARY AND LADY MARY;
OR, NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOURS.
The Lady Mary's placid eyes
Beam with no hopes, no memories;
Beneath their lids no tear-drops flow,
For Love or Pity, Joy or Woe.
She never knows, too barren she,
The fruitfulness of sympathy;
She never weeps for others' pain,
Or smiles, except in her disdain.
Beam with no hopes, no memories;
Beneath their lids no tear-drops flow,
For Love or Pity, Joy or Woe.
She never knows, too barren she,
The fruitfulness of sympathy;
She never weeps for others' pain,
Or smiles, except in her disdain.
Her face is pallid as the pearl,
Her hair is sleek, without a curl;
With finger-tip she condescends
To touch the fingers of her friends,
As if she fear'd their palms might brand
Some moral stigma on her hand;
Her pulse is calm, milk-white her skin,
She hath not blood enough to sin.
Her hair is sleek, without a curl;
With finger-tip she condescends
To touch the fingers of her friends,
As if she fear'd their palms might brand
Some moral stigma on her hand;
Her pulse is calm, milk-white her skin,
She hath not blood enough to sin.
A very pattern, sage and staid,
Of all her sex—a model maid;
Clear star—bright paragon of men—
She breaks no law of all the ten;
Pure to the sight as snow-peak'd hill—
As inaccessible and chill;
In sunshine—but repelling heat—
And freezing in her own conceit.
Of all her sex—a model maid;
Clear star—bright paragon of men—
She breaks no law of all the ten;
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As inaccessible and chill;
In sunshine—but repelling heat—
And freezing in her own conceit.
If ever known to breathe a sigh,
It was for lack of flattery.
Though cold, insensible, and dull,
Admirers call her beautiful;
She sucks their incense, breathes it, dotes
On her own praise, that gently floats
On Fashion's wave—and lies in wait
To catch admirers of her state.
It was for lack of flattery.
Though cold, insensible, and dull,
Admirers call her beautiful;
She sucks their incense, breathes it, dotes
On her own praise, that gently floats
On Fashion's wave—and lies in wait
To catch admirers of her state.
In publish'd charities her name
Stands foremost, for she buys her fame;
At church men see her thrice a week,
In spirit proud, in aspect meek;
Wearing Devotion like a mask,
So marble cold, that sinners ask,
Beholding her at Mercy's throne,
“Is this a woman or a stone?”
Stands foremost, for she buys her fame;
At church men see her thrice a week,
In spirit proud, in aspect meek;
Wearing Devotion like a mask,
So marble cold, that sinners ask,
Beholding her at Mercy's throne,
“Is this a woman or a stone?”
But different, far, the little maid,
That dwells unnoticed in the shade
Of Lady Mary's pomp and power;
A Mary, too, a simple flower,
With face all health, with cheeks all smile,
Undarken'd by one cloud of guile;
And ruddy lips that seem to say,
“Come, kiss me, children, while ye may.”
That dwells unnoticed in the shade
Of Lady Mary's pomp and power;
A Mary, too, a simple flower,
With face all health, with cheeks all smile,
Undarken'd by one cloud of guile;
And ruddy lips that seem to say,
“Come, kiss me, children, while ye may.”
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A cordial hand, a chubby arm,
And hazel eyes, large, soft, and warm;
Dark hair in curls, a snow-like bust,
A look all innocence and trust,
Lit up at times by sunny mirth,
Like summer smiling on the earth;
A ringing laugh, whose every note
Bursts in clear music from her throat.
And hazel eyes, large, soft, and warm;
Dark hair in curls, a snow-like bust,
A look all innocence and trust,
Lit up at times by sunny mirth,
Like summer smiling on the earth;
A ringing laugh, whose every note
Bursts in clear music from her throat.
A painter's daughter—poor, perchance,
But rich in native elegance;
God bless the maid—she may not be
Without some touch of vanity.
She twines red rosebuds in her hair,
And smiles to know herself so fair;
And quite believes, like other belles,
The pleasant tale her mirror tells.
But rich in native elegance;
God bless the maid—she may not be
Without some touch of vanity.
She twines red rosebuds in her hair,
And smiles to know herself so fair;
And quite believes, like other belles,
The pleasant tale her mirror tells.
A very woman, full of tears,
Hopes, blushes, tendernesses, fears,
Griefs, laughter, kindness, joys and sighs,
Loves, likings, friendships, sympathies;
A heart to feel for every woe,
And pity, if not dole, bestow;
A hand to give from scanty store,
A look to wish the offering more.
Hopes, blushes, tendernesses, fears,
Griefs, laughter, kindness, joys and sighs,
Loves, likings, friendships, sympathies;
A heart to feel for every woe,
And pity, if not dole, bestow;
A hand to give from scanty store,
A look to wish the offering more.
In artless faith and virtue strong,
Too loving to do Love a wrong;
She takes delight in simple things,
And in the sunshine works and sings.
Sweet bird! so meekly innocent,
The foulest hawk that ever rent
A trusting heart, would gaze, and fly,
And spare her in her purity.
Too loving to do Love a wrong;
She takes delight in simple things,
And in the sunshine works and sings.
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The foulest hawk that ever rent
A trusting heart, would gaze, and fly,
And spare her in her purity.
Take Lady Mary ye who will,
Her woods, her castle on the hill,
Her lands o'er half a county spread—
And wither in her loveless bed;
But give me Mary, frank and free,
Her beauty, grace, and modesty:
I pass My Lady in the mart—
I take the Woman with the heart.
Her woods, her castle on the hill,
Her lands o'er half a county spread—
And wither in her loveless bed;
But give me Mary, frank and free,
Her beauty, grace, and modesty:
I pass My Lady in the mart—
I take the Woman with the heart.
| Voices from the crowd | |