Memories of the past steal o’er me, and remind me of a story,
That in all its doleful sadness I have never told before.
Well, I loved a girl named Mary, whose old daddy owned a dairy,
And a bull-dog, large and powerful, who a frightful visage wore,
And one night I went to court her as I’d often done before,
But I’ll court her nevermore.
Quite distinctly I remember, ’twas one warm night in September,
That I sat and held my Mary—held her till my arms were sore,
And upon her lips I kissed her till I almost raised a blister.
Since that night, oh, how I’ve missed her—missed the girl whom I adore;