A rose of the valley, mid Cauda's green bowers,
Bloom'd poor little Mary, the villagers' pride;
And blithe as the lark that elate hails the morning,
O'er scenes of blest childhood with health daily hied:
Her father, a cottager, lov'd her, ah, dearly!
For still in her face a lost partner he view'd,
And oft to her green grave at evening they wander'd,
To pluck the wild weeds Spring around it had strew'd.

Now scarce sixteen Summers had danc'd o'er the mountains,
When love, tyrant love made poor Mary his slave;
But soon slaught'ring war from her arms call'd young Henry,
And tidings next told her he fell with the brave.
All faded she wanders, each comfort denying,
The visions of pleasure for ever are fled;
A poor frenzied orphan lives ill--fated Mary,
The flocks her companions, the cold earth her bed.