  What pleasure oft ’tis to reveal The pain or rapture which we feel; ’Tis bliss while either we impart Unto a sympathetic heart, Just like to that sweet heart of thine, My lovely Mary of the Tyne. I lose, when near thee, all my care, When from thee, I am all despair; My bosom heaves with anxious pain, Until I meet with thee again, What are these adverse pangs of mine, My lovely Mary of the Tyne? Say, is it from thy beauteous face, Or is it from thy nat’ral grace, Or is it thy angelic mind, Or is it ev’ry one combin’d, Making one sweet form divine, My lovely Mary of the Tyne? Should it be love, thou’dst sure forgive? That is the food on which I live; But if thou should’st that bliss deny, Then must thy faithful lover die; Or linger out his life supine, For lovely Mary of the Tyne! |
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