The Book of Scottish Song/Mary Shaw

Mary Shaw.

[Peter M'Arthur.—Here first printed.]

When Mary Shaw cam' to our valley,
⁠Sweet and gentle was her form—
A lily blossom drooping palely
⁠'Neath the frown of early storm.

Sad was her smile, but words o' pleasure
⁠Ever left her guileless tongue;
We wonder'd aft that heaven's treasure
⁠Fill'd the heart o' ane sae young.

She wander'd where the violet's blossom
⁠Spent its fragrance in the shade,
Aft she bid it on her bosom
⁠Softly rest its purpled head.

But aye it droop'd in pining sorrow,
⁠And seem'd as if it whispering said,
Dear sister, ere the winters morrow,
⁠Cold will be our narrow bed.

And when the year was sadly waning,
⁠Ere the rough winds 'gan to rave,
Young JIary faded. imcompLoining,
⁠Wasted to an early grave.

Now o'er her bed the autumn morrow
⁠Strews the wither'd flower and leaf,
And the wind wakes its sighs of sorrow,
⁠In concert with our tears of grief.

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