Mary, the Fair of Glensmole

Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells,
Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells,
Sweet the snowy blossom of the thorny tree,
Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.

Sweet, oh, sweet! with Mary o'er the wilds to stray,
When Glensmole is dress'd in all the pride of May;
And, when weary roving through the greenwood glade,
Softly to recline beneath the birken shade.
Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

There to fix my gaze in raptures of delight,
On her eyes of truth, of love, of life, of light;
On her bosom, purer than the silver tide,
Fairer than the cana on the mountain side.
Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

What were all the sounds contrived by tuneful men,
To the warbling wild notes of the sylvan glen?
Here the merry lark ascends on dewy wing,
There the mellow mavis and the blackbird sing.
Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

What were all the splendour of the proud and great,
To the simple pleasures of our green retreat?
From the crystal spring fresh vigour we inhale,
Rosy health does court us on the mountain gale.
Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

Were I offer'd all the wealth that Albion yields,
All her lofty mountains and her fruitful fields,
With the countless riches of her subject seas,
I would scorn the change for blisses such as these!
Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells,
Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells,
Sweet the snowy blossom of the thorny tree,
Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.