Mary of the Tyne

What pleasure oft' 'tis to reveal, The pain or pleasure that we feel; 'Tis bliss, while either we impart Unto a sympathetic heart;— Just like that sweet heart of thine, My lovely Mary of the Tyne.

I lose, when near thee, all my care, When from thee, I am all despair; My bosom heaves with anxious pain, Until I meet with thee again; What are the adverse pangs of mine, My lovely Mary of the Tyne?

Say is it from thy beauteous face, Or is it from thy natural grace, Or is it thy angelic mind, Or is it ev'ry one combin'd, Making one sweet form divine, My lovely Mary of the Tyne?

Shou'd it be love, thou'lt sure forgive, That is the food on which I live; But if thou shou'dst that bliss deny, Then must thy faithful lover die; Or linger out his life and pine, For lovely Mary of the Tyne.