 | Ballads of Irish chivalry |  |
273
MARY, THE PRIDE OF THE WEST.
I
The summer shines bright from the plainTo the hills where the gray rocks are piled;
The birds sing a clear, joyous strain,
And the flowers are in bloom o'er the wild;
But a flower, all these fair flow'rs above
In sweetness, blooms deep in my breast;
'Tis the lone flower of fondness and love
For Mary, the Pride of the West.
II
There's an ash-tree that blooms light and fair,Where the linnets in May make their bower;
There's a rose-bush beyond all compare,
By the walls of the gray mountain tower;
But how lovely soe'er that lone tree,
And the bush all in white blossoms drest,
As fair and as lovely is she,
My Mary, the Pride of the West.
III
When she goes from the wild hills amongTo the town on the verge of the plain,
Could you see her sweet face 'mid the throng,
You ne'er would forget it again;
And the gallants who pass, when they see,
And the crowd, think her brightest and best,
And they ask who such fair maid can be,
My Mary, the Pride of the West!
274
IV
When each night at her father's broad hearthI sit near my love by the fire,
I have all that my heart on this Earth
Can love, and adore, and admire;
Then her eyes, like two clear stars above,
With their kind looks on me often rest,
Till I'm wild, wild with fondness and love
For Mary, the Pride of the West!
| Ballads of Irish chivalry | |