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| THE MORN was fresh, and pure the gale, | |
| When Mary, from her cot a rover, | |
| Pluck’d many a wild rose of the vale | |
| To bind the temples of her lover. | |
| As near his little farm she stray’d, | 5 |
| Where birds of love were ever pairing, | |
| She saw her William in the shade, | |
| The arms of ruthless war preparing. | |
| “Though now,” he cried, “I seek the hostile plain, | |
| Mary shall smile, and all be fair again.” | 10 |
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| She seized his hand, and “Ah!” she cried, | |
| “Wilt thou to camps and war a stranger | |
| Desert thy Mary’s faithful side, | |
| And bare thy life to every danger? | |
| Yet go, brave youth! to arms away! | 15 |
| My maiden hands for fight shall dress thee, | |
| And when the drum beats far away, | |
| I ’ll drop a silent tear and bless thee. | |
| Return’d with honor, from the hostile plain, | |
| Mary will smile, and all be fair again. | 20 |
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| The bugles through the forest wind, | |
| The woodland soldiers call to battle, | |
| Be some protecting angel kind, | |
| And guard thy life when cannons rattle!” | |
| She sung, and as the rose appears | 25 |
| In sunshine, when the storm is over, | |
| A smile beam’d sweetly through her tears, | |
| The blush of promise to her lover. | |
| Return’d in triumph from the hostile plain, | |
| All shall be fair, and Mary smile again. | 30 |
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