My Mary!
And then I feel that still I hold
A richer store ten thousandfold
Than mirs fan their gold,
My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st,
That now at every step thou mov’st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st,
My Mary!
And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!
But ah! by stant heed I know,
How oft the sadhat I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast
With much remblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last.
My Mary!
My Mary!
And then I feel that still I hold
A richer store ten thousandfold
Than mirs fan their gold,
My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st,
That now at every step thou mov’st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st,
My Mary!
And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!
But ah! by stant heed I know,
How oft the sadhat I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast
With much remblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last.
My Mary!