Classic Poem

Bleak blows the storm upon that breast
Whose guest is life-consuming sorrow;
Oh take me to some place of rest,
Where I may slumber 'till to-morrow.
You view my face — it once was fair —
At least so said my charming Harry;
But he is gone — and black despair
Is all that's left to Wand'ring Mary!

Bright shone our blythesome bridal hour,
Love shook his wings with pleasure beaming;
But soon he left our little bow'r,
While I of bliss was fondly dreaming:
A soldier's coat allur'd my love,
I wept — I kneel'd — he would not tarry —
I pray'd him by the pow'rs above,
Not to desert his faithful Mary.

Alas! how shall I speak the rest,
The grief that's in my bosom burning?
The cold clay clothes his bloody breast!
And can you blame his Mary's mourning!
Nor house, nor home, nor friend have I,
Except this babe, my pledge of Harry;
And famine dims his infant eye,
That us'd to glad the mournful Mary.

No thief am I, as some alledge,
Though sore hath cold and hunger try'd me;
I pluck the haw-berry from the hedge,
When human aid is oft denied me.
But hush, my babe! though large the load
Of woes that we are doom'd to carry,
Within some cold grave's bleak abode,
You'll sweetly sleep, with Wand'ring Mary!