With her besom in her hand,
After having swept the floor –
O! she made a picture grand,
Framed within the open door.
Picture grand! – eyes never saw,
Hand of artist never drew
Aught so fair and free from flaw,
As the maid that met my view.
I have roamed in many climes,
Many oceans have I crossed,
Been in love some dozen times,
Seen of handsome girls a host.
Yet, she was the fairest fair,
Ever I set eyes upon;
Beautiful beyond compare –
Brighter than the noon day sun.
Did I love her? – are you wise
To put such a question, sir?
Sure I loved my very eyes –
‘Cause they loved to look at her.
What ? – describe her ? – deed I’ll not,
Shakespear, Dryden, Goldsmith,
Though they wrote and read a lot
Could not do it, I am sure.
Forty years from then have flown;
Now if her you’d like to see
There’s a cabin in Tyrone;
Where she dwells, my wife, with me.
We have children o’er the waves,
Some have settled in Tyrone;
Some are sleeping in their graves
Soon we’ll take the road they’ve gone.
Now I am an old, old man,
She’s an old, old woman now;
Her once rosy cheeks are wan,
Time and toil have marked her brow.
Still I love her as of yore –
Though she’s not as fresh and grand
As when standing in her door,
With her besom in her hand.
O let me love you, Mary!
When spring through Foremass strays;
When all the vales are verdant,
And golden all the braes.
Then fair are the flow’rs and blossoms;
But fairer will they be –
If I have you to love, Mary!
And you to love have me.
O let me love you, Mary!
When summer sunlight beams
On the white homes of Foremass,
And on the Foremass streams.
Sweet songs these streams are singing:
But sweeter will they be –
If with your voice they blend, Mary!
The while you talk with me.
O let me love you, Mary!
When leaves of autumn fall,
When the birds’ songs are heard not,
And a hush hangs oe’r all.
Then the grand groves of Foremass
Far more sublime will be –
Reflected in your eyes, Mary!
The while they smile on me.
O let me love you, Mary!
When winter raves and scolds:
And Foremass his white mantle
Around his shoulders folds.
One dear, white home in Foremass
Will dearer, whiter be –
If it be then love’s shrine, Mary!
The home of you and me.
O, I would deem my lot divine.
Though forced to leave my native shore;
If I were yours-and you were mine,
To part no more.
For you to me are more than land –
My flow’rs of flow’rs, my harp in tune,
My mine of gold, my jewels, and
My sun and moon!
O, I would deem my lot divine,
Though doomed to life-long servitude;
If I were yours, if you were mine –
I would – I would!
Work would be joy, and pain be bliss,
And crosses sweet for sake of you;
I’d have, in one soul-stirring kiss,
More than my due.
O, I would deem my lot divine,
Though failed by friends and all the rest;
If I were yours – if you were mine,
In one wee nest.
For what to me were wealth and wine,
And home and friends, and power and place,
Were I not yours – were you not mine? –
My flower of grace.