Gentle Mary of the Tweed

The gentle maid of whom I sing, Once liv'd where Tweed's blue waters wave, But now the modest flower of spring Hangs weeping o'er her dewy grave. Fond nymphs! of Mary's fate beware, Of perjur'd William's vows take heed. Lest you should love, and then despair, Like gentle Mary of the Tweed.

Tho' long he woo'd the lovely maid, And she was faithful in return, To ev'ry sense of honour dead, He fled, and left the fair to mourn! Alarm'd at her false lover's flight, Her fair companions sought the mead, To sink the hopes, in endless night, For gentle Mary of the Tweed.

She heard—but scorning to upbraid, She breath'd alone the secret sigh, For graceful pride induc'd the maid To hide her wrongs from ev'ry eye. Here, in these shades, a prey to grief, She tun'd to plaintive strains the reed; 'Till death, from woe a blest relief, Smote gentle Mary of the Tweed.

Now, in her turf-bound grave, at rest, Where yonder willow droops its head, With hopeless care no more oppress'd, She sleeps beneath the waving shade. The cruel wrongs are all forgot Which forc'd her virgin heart to bleed: Fond nymphs! be your's a milder lot Than gentle Mary's of the Tweed.