Thomas Furlong

Molly Astore

O MARY dear! bright peerless flower,
  Pride of the plains of Nair,
Behold me droop through each dull hour,
  In soul-consuming care.
In friends, in wine,—where joy was found,—
  No joy I now can see;
But still, while pleasure reigns around,
  I sigh, and think of thee.

The cuckoo’s notes I love to hear,
  When summer warms the skies;
When fresh the banks and brakes appear,
  And flowers around us rise:
That blithe bird sings her song so clear,
  And she sings where the sunbeams shine,—
Her voice is sweet, but, Mary dear,
  Not half so sweet as thine.

From town to town I ’ve idly strayed,
  I ’ve wandered many a mile;
I ’ve met with many a blooming maid,
  And owned her charms the while:
I ’ve gazed on some that then seemed fair,
  But when thy looks I see,
I find there ’s none that can compare,
  My Mary dear, with thee!