MARY LAGHACH.
Reading edition
From the Gaelic, by Professor Blackie.
Ho! my bonnie Mary, My dainty love, my queen, The fairest, rarest Mary On earth was ever seen! Ho! my queenly Mary, Who made me king of men, To call thee mine own Mary, Born in the bonnie glen.
Young was I and Mary, In the windings of Glensmoil, When came that imp of Venus And caught us with his wile; And pierced us with his arrows, That we thrilled in every pore, And loved as mortals never loved On this green earth before.
Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.
Oft times myself and Mary Strayed up the bonnie glen, Our hearts as pure and innocent As little children then; Boy Cupid finely taught us To dally and to toy, When the shade fell from the green tree, And the sun was in the sky.
Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.
If all the wealth of Albyn Were mine, and treasures rare, What boots all gold and silver If sweet love be not there? More dear to me than rubies In deepest veins that shine, Is one kiss from the lovely lips That rightly I call mine.
Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.
Thy bosom's heaving whiteness With beauty overbrims, Like swan upon the waters When gentliest it swims; Like cotton on the moorland Thy skin is soft and fine, Thy neck is like the sea-gul When dipping in the brine.
Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.
The locks about thy dainty ears Do richly curl and twine; Dame Nature rarely grew a wealth Of ringlets like to thine: There needs no hand of hireling To twist and plait thy hair, But where it grew it winds and falls In wavy beauty there.
Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.
Like snow upon the mountains Thy teeth are pure and white; Thy breath is like the cinnamon, Thy mouth buds with delight. Thy cheeks are like the cherries, Thine eyelids soft and fair, And smooth thy brow, untaught to frown, Beneath thy golden hair.
Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.
The pomp of mighty kaisers Our state doth far surpass, When 'neath the leafy coppice We lie upon the grass; The purple flowers around us Outspread their rich array, Where the lusty mountain streamlet Is leaping from the brae.
Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.
Nor harp, nor pipe, nor organ, From touch of cunning men, Made music half so eloquent As our hearts thrilled with then. When the blythe lark lightly soaring, And the mavis on the spray, And the cuckoo in the greenwood, Sang hymns to greet the May.
Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.