What ringlets discover
Their gloss thy brows over—
Forget thee! thy lover,
Ah, first shall they bury.
Thy aspect of kindness,
Thy graces they bind us,
And, like Feili,[45] remind us
Of a heaven undreary.
Than the treasures of Spain
I would toil more to gain
Thy love—but my pain,
Ah, 'tis cruel, my Mary!
When the shell is o'erflowing,
And its dew-drops are glowing,
No, never, thy snow on
A slander shall tarry.
When viols are playing,
And dancers are Maying,
My eyes may be straying,
But my soul is with Mary.
That white hand of thine
Might I take into mine,
Could I ever repine,
Or from tenderness vary?
No, never! no, never!
My troth on 't for ever,
Lip to lip, I 'd deliver
My being to Mary.