The Book of Scottish Song/Mary Dhu

Mary Dhu.

[D. M. Moir.—Adapted to the music of an ancient Gaelic air.]

Sweet, sweet is the rose-bud
Bathed in dew;
But sweeter art thou
My Mary dhu.
Oh! the skies of night,
With their eyes of light,
Are not so bright
As my Mary dhu.
Whenever thy radiant face I see,
The clouds of sorrow depart from me,
As the shadows fly
From day's bright eye,
Thou lightest life's sky,
My Mary dhu!

Sad, sad is my heart,
When I sigh, Adieu!
Or gaze on thy parting,
My Mary dhu!
Then for thee I mourn,
Till thy steps return
Bids my bosom burn,—
My Mary dhu.
I think but of thee on the broom-clad hills
I muse but on thee by the moorland rill:
In the morning light,
In the moonshine bright,
Thou art still in my sight,
My Mary dhu.

Thy voice trembles through me
Like the breeze,
That ruffles, in gladness,
The leafy trees;
'Tis a wafted tone
From heaven's high throne,
Making hearts thine own,
My Mary dhu.
Be the flowers of joy ever round thy feet
With colours glowing, and incense sweet;
And when thou must away,
May life's rose decay
In the west wind's sway—
My Mary dhu!

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