MARY THE PRIDE OF THE

Shamrock Shore. Down by a lowly river, A bold young hero chanced to stray, And there he did discover, A young man and a lady gay, So comely, fair and handsome, And a costly dress the lady wore And it proved to be his true love, Young Mary the pride of Shamrock shore. He boldly stepped up to them, Good morning fair one he did say, I find I was forsaken, Because I was so long away, And if you'll be true-hearted, Or can you change your love once more I vow I will never be parted, From Mary the pride of the Shamrock shore. Begone I do not know you, So kind sir you can go your way, My true-love is a squire And I can be his lady gay, For I once had a true-love, But long ago he was no more, So sir do not insult us, Said Mary, the pride of the Shamrock Shore. The wealthy squire enraged, said, Here's powder if your skill you'll try And likewise a brace of pistols, I carry on this lonesome way, And if you are her true-love, I am the same—you are no more, So we will fight for true love, And Mary the pride of the Shamrock Shore. The battle dreadfully raging, Whilst poor Mary wept in vain, Young Henry was so valiant, The squire soon fell with pain Then with the squire's weapon, Young Mary fired, but greived sore, When she found she had killed her true-love, Did Mary the pride of the Shamrock Shore. She cried aloud for pardon, And down she fell in grief and pain, She kissed his cheeks so gory, Then ran distracted o'er the plain, And in a lonesome dungeon, And frantic now she may deplore, By Bedlam's walls surrounded Is Mary the pride of the Shamrock Shore.

Meet me in the Willo Glen Meet me in the willow glen,

Where the silvery moon is beaming ; Songs of love I'll sing thee then,

When all the world is dreaming. Meet me in the willow glen,

When the silvery moon is beaming, Songs of love I'll sing thee then,

If you meet me in the willow glen.

No prying eye shall come, love, No stranger's foot be seen,

And the busy village hum, love, Shall echo through the glen.

Meet me, &c.

T o melodious mandolins, My songs I'll softly blend, love,

While to thee my melody, A soothing balm shall lend, love.

No prying eye, &c.

Walker, Printer, Durham, [194]