Mary Lee

The briony, in the hedge, that now adorns
The tree to which it clings, and now the thorns,
Owns five-starred pointed leaves of dingy white;
Count which I will, all make the number right.
The spreading goose-grass, trailing all abroad
In leaves of silver green about the road —
Five leaves make every blossom all along.
I stoop for many, none are counted wrong.
'Tis Nature's wonder, and her Maker's will,
Who bade Earth be, and Order owns him still,
As that superior Power, who keeps the key
Of wisdom, and of might, through all eternity.

I HAVE traced the valleys fair
In May morning's dewy air,
My bonny Mary Lee!
Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear,
Gathered all for thee?
They are not flowers of pride,
For they graced the dingle-side;
Yet they grew in heaven's smile,
My gentle Mary Lee!
Can they fear thy frowns the while,
Though offered by me?

Here's the lily of the vale,
That perfumed the morning gale,
My fairy Mary Lee!
All so spotless and so pale,
Like thine own purity.
And, might I make it known,
'Tis an emblem of my own
Love — if I dare so name
My esteem for thee.
Surely flowers can bear no blame,
My bonny Mary Lee!

Here's the violet's modest blue,
That 'neath hawthorns hides from view,
My gentle Mary Lee,
Would show whose heart is true,
While it thinks of thee.
While they choose each lowly spot,
The sun disdains them not;
I'm as lowly too indeed,
My charming Mary Lee;
So I've brought the flowers to plead,
And win a smile from thee.

Here's a wild rose just in bud;
Spring's beauty in its hood,
My bonny Mary Lee!
'Tis the first in all the wood
I could find for thee.
Though a blush is scarcely seen,
Yet it hides its worth within,
Like my love; for I've no power,
My angel, Mary Lee,
To speak, unless the flower
Can make, excuse for me.

Though they deck no princely halls,
In bouquets for glittering balls,
My gentle Mary Lee!
Richer hues than painted walls
Will make them dear to thee;
For the blue and laughing sky
Spreads a grander canopy,
Than all wealth's golden skill,
My charming Mary Lee!
Love would make them dearer still,
That offers them to thee.

My wreathed flowers are few,
Yet no fairer drink the dew,
My bonny Mary Lee!
They may seem as trifles too —
Not I hope to thee.
Some may boast a richer prize
Under pride and wealth's disguise;
None a fonder offering bore
Than this of mine to thee;
And can true love wish for more?
Surely not, Mary Lee!