Mary le More, a lamentable Irish song/Mary le More, a lamentable Irish song

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Tune,———Poor Exile of Erin.



OH! Soldiers of England, your mercileſs doings
Long, long may the children of Ireland deplore;
Sad ſinks my ſoul when I view the black ruins,
Where once ſtood the cabin of Mary le More.
Her father God reſt him lov'd Ireland moſt dearly!
All its wrongs, all its ſuffrings he felt moſt ſeverely,
But gone is the father of Mary le More!

One cold winter's eve, as poor Dermot was muſing,
Hoarie curies alarm'd him,and craſh went his door!
The fierce ſoldiers enter'd & ſtraight 'gan abuſing
The brave, but mild father of Mary le More!
To their ſcoffs he replied not—with blows they assail'd him—
Indignant he roſe, and his caution now fail'd him
He return’d their vile blows—now all Munſte bewails him—
For ſtab'd was the father of Mary le More.

The childrens' wild ſcreams, and the mother's diſtraction,
While the huſband—the father—lay ſtretch'd in his gore!
Ah! who can deſcribe, & not curſe the vile faction
That blaſted that roſe bud ſweet Mary le More
My, father! my father! ſhe cried, wildly throwing
Her arms round his neck, while his life ſtream were flowing!
She kiſs'd his pale cheeks, but poor Dermot was going;
He groan'd, and left fatherleſs Mary le More.

From her father's pale cheeks, which her lap h(illegible text) ſupported,
To an out hoaſe the ruffians the lovely maid bo(illegible text)
With her pray’rs her intreaties, her, ſorrows they ſported,
{{em}And by force they deflow'red ſweet Mary de More
And now a poor maniac ſhe roams the wild coma(illegible text)
Gainſt the ſoldiers of England ſhe warns every woman;
And ſings of her father in ſtrains more than hun(illegible text)
Till tears often flow from poor Mary le More.


As I ſtray'd o'er the common on Cork's ru(illegible text) border,
While the dew drops of morn the pale pri(illegible text) array'd.
I ſaw a poor female, whoſe mental diſorder
Her quick-glancing eye and wild aſpect betray.
On the ſward ſhe reclin'd, by the green fern ſurrounded;
At her ſide ſpeckled daiſies and crow-flower abounded;
To its inmoſt recess her heart had been wounded;
Her ſighs were unceaſing—'twas Mary le More.

Her charms by the keen blaſt of ſorrow were faded;
Yet the ſoft tinge of beauty ſtill play'd on her cheek;
Her treſſes a wreath of pale primroſes braibed,
And ſtrings of freſh daiſies hung looſe on her neck.
While with pity I gaz'd, ſhe exclaim'd, “ O my mother!
See the blood on that laſh, 'tis the blood of my brother!
They have torn his poor fleſh, and they now ſtrip another;
Tis Connor, the friend of poor Mary le More.

Tho' his locks were as white as the foam of the ocean,
Thoſe wretches ſhall find that my father is brave;
My father! ſhe cried, with the wildeſt emotion!
(illegible text)! no, my poor father now ſleeps in the grave:
They have toll'd his death bell, they have laid the turf o’er him;
(illegible text); white locks were bloody, no aid could reſtore him;
(illegible text) is gone! he is gone! and the good will deplore him,
When the blue wave of Erin hides Mary le More.

A lark from the gold-bloſſom'd furze that grew near her,
“Now roſe, and with energy caroll'd his lay:
“Huſh! huſh!‘ ſhe continu‘d, “the trumpet ſounds clearer;
“The horſemen approach! Erin's daughters away!
“Ah! ſoldiers, 'twas foul, while the cabin was burning
“And o'er a pale father a wretch had been mourning
“Go hide with the ſea-mew, ye maids, and take warning,
“Thoſe ruffians have ruin‘d poor Mary le More.

“Away! bring the ointment! O G-ſee those gaſhes!
"Alas! my poor brother, come dry the big tear;
“Anon, we'll have vengeance for thoſe dreadful laſhes;
“Already the ſcreech-owl and ravens appear:
“By day the green grave that lies under the willow,
“With wild flowers I'll ſtrew, and by night make my pillow,
“Till the coze and dark ſea-weed, beneath the curl'd billow,
“Shall furniſh a death-bed for Mary le More.”

Thus rav'd the poor maniac in tones more heart-rending,
Than ſanity's voice ever pour'd on my ear,
When lo! on the waſte, and their march tow'rds her bending,
A troop of fierce caralry chanc'd to appear;
“O the fiends!” ſhe exclaim'd. and with wild horror ſtarted
Then through the tall fern, loudly ſcreaming, ſhe darted,
With an overchang’d boſom I ſlowly departed,
And ſigh'd for the wrongs of poor Mary le More.

This work was published before January 1, 1925, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.