Ere vice and falsehood sold her.
For Mary was once the pride of the plain,
The happiest fair of the fair:
The flute and the cymbal welcomed her then,—
They were silent unless she was there.
But now there are none to hear her woes,
Or join in her tale of sorrow,—
To wipe from her eye the penitent tear,
Or chase away thoughts of the morrow.
Yes, Mary, there's one whose heart beats for thee yet,