Sweet Mary Beal

This passion to love thee I cannot conceal
But how shall I tell thee my sweet Mary Beal
I'm sure that I love her but Mary's not here
Where the dews on the grass and the rose on the brere
But the rose on the brere and the dew on the grass
Is nothing compared to my own bonny lass
Oh the fruits of my passion I cannot conceal!
'Twas May when I first met my Sweet Mary Beal.


Bright daisies and Celadine starr'd the green lane
And the white thorn with blossoms was dotting again
Seeking clay from the ditches were Blackbirds & Thrushes
For the houses they're building among the green bushes
A primroses root by the waggon gate shone
As yellow as mustard or flowers o' brimstone
One sunday in May I did silently steal
Down the green lane right happy to court Mary Beal.


Her frock it was light and her kerchief was silk
And her bosom beneath it as snowwhite as milk
Her lips like twin cherries her cheeks like the rose
Which blushes so sweet down among the hedge rows
Oh sure such another could never be seen
Yet she wondereth much what my bother does mean
There are many green trees do sweet blossoms reveal
But nothing so handsome as young Mary Beal.
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