Classic Poem

I' M sittin' on the stile, Mary,
— Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
— When first you were my bride.
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
— And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
— And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
— The day is bright as then,
The lark's 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'nin' for the words
— You never more will 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.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,
— For the poor make no new friends;
But, oh! they love the better still
— The few our Father sends.
And you were all I had, Mary,
— My blessin' and my pride:
There's nothin' left to care for now,
— Since my poor Mary died.

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

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

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
— My Mary — kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,
— In the land I'm goin' 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 springin' corn, and the bright May morn,
— When first you were my bride.