3
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.
PART II.
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
