Thomas Crossley published this Ballad in 1837
I pulled a rose from off the bower, And O, it was a thornless blossom; From every sting I cleared the flower, And placed it in my Mary's bosom. She took it thence with trembling hand, And to her bonny lip she pressed it But every leaf, so fair and bland, Fell to the ground as she caressed it. A tear bedimmed her lovely e'e, While o'er this wreck of beauty leaning She cast a doubtful look on me, And! full well I knew its meaning. Alas, I said, my lovely maid, The matchless gem is gone for ever, Like woman by false man betrayed, No more to bloom, ah never, never. But think not, as thou lookst on me, That love so soon can quit its station; And that this ruined rose can be An emblem of its short duration. How long or brief our days may be, Till in the tomb this head reposes, Mary, I will cling to thee, And till my fate be like the rose's
Page Ref: QQ_150
|
||
| site search by freefind |