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Sweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the ball-room among the fair;
The young men and maidens around her throng,
And these are the words upon every tongue:
'An angel is here from the heavenly climes,
Or again return the golden times;
Her eyes outshine every brilliant ray.
She opens her lips—'tis the month of May.'
Mary moves in soft beauty and conscious delight,
To augment with sweet smiles all the joys of the night,
Nor once blushes to own to the rest of the fair
That sweet love and beauty are worthy our care.
In the morning the villagers rose with delight,
And repeated with pleasure the joys of the night.
And Mary arose among friends to be free.
But no friend from henceforward thou, Mary, shalt see.
Some said she was proud, some reviled her still more,
And some when she passed by shut-to the door;
A damp cold came o'er her, her blushes all fled.
Her lilies and roses are blighted and shed.
'O why was I born with a different face,
Why was I not born like this envious race?
Why did heaven adorn me with bountiful hand.
And then set me down in an envious land?
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