 | Ballads of Irish chivalry |  |
THE WITHERED ROSE.
I
Fair blooms array the summer bowersAlong the woodlands airy,
But fairer still this flower of flowers
I got from my dear Mary.
The purple heath-bell paints the steep,
Wild rock and glen illuming;
More dear this withered flower I keep,
Than all the wild flowers blooming.
Oh! fair the blooms that deck the bowers,
And paint the mountains airy,
Oh! fairer still this flower of flowers,
I got from my dear Mary!
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II
Oh! sweet the days of long ago,When love with joy was weaven,
When in the fairy dells below
We met each summer even;
When Mary sat in beauty nigh,
And sang the songs I taught her,
And spoke the love that ne'er shall die,
By Grena's sunny water.
Oh! fair the blooms that deck the bowers,
And paint the mountains airy!
Oh! fairer still this flower of flowers
I got from my dear Mary!
III
It was upon a Saint John's nightShe gave me that red blossom;
'Twas blooming in its freshness bright
Upon her loving bosom;
And since, through changing joys and tears,
Though fate her smiles denied me—
Oh! ever since, for five long years,
I've kept that flower beside me!
Oh! sweet the blooms that deck the bowers,
And paint the mountains airy!
Oh! sweeter still this flower of flowers,
I got from my dear Mary.
IV
And when once more I meet her gazeBy Grena's crystal water,
How sweet to talk of those young days
When by the wave I sought her;
When care is fled, and woe is dead,
And joy alone is shining,
When meeting then in that wild glen,
Her arms are round me twining;
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Amid the woodlands airy,
This long-kept, priceless flower of flowers
I'll show to my dear Mary!
| Ballads of Irish chivalry | |