Historic Sheet Music Collection

Document Type

Score

Publication Date

1840

Comments

The lament of the Irish emigrant. A ballad, poetry by the hon. Mrs. Price Blackwood. The music composed and most cordially dedicated to Mrs. Isaac McGaw, of New York, By William R. Dempster. Boston. Published by W.H. Oakes, 13 Tremont Row.

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Lyrics

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,
On a bright morning long ago,
When first you were my bride.


The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high
And the red was on thy lip Mary
And the love light in your eye
And the red was on thy lip Mary
And the l ove light in your eye
The place is little change, Mary,
The day as bright as then;
The larks loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again!

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'ning for the words
You never more may speak,
And I still keep list'ning for the words
You never more may speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here;
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest,
For I've laid you, darling down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast,
For I've laid you, darling down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast,
I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends;
But Oh! they love the better far,
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died!

Yours was the brave good heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength had gone,
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow;
I bless you for that same, Mary,
Though you can't hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile,
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawing there,
And you hid it, for my sake!
I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was and sore;
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more.

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to;
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,
And the springing corn, and the bright May morn
When first you were my bride!

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