Sweet comes the morning
In Nature's adorning,
And bright shines the dew on the buds of the thorn,
Where Mary Ann rambles
Through the sloe trees and brambles;
She's sweeter than wild flowers that open at morn;
She's a rose in the dew;
She's pure and she's true;
She's as gay as the poppy that grows in the corn.

Her eyes they are bright,
Her bosom's snow white,
And her voice is like songs of the birds in the grove.
She's handsome and bonny,
And fairer than any,
And her person and actions are Nature's and love.
She has the bloom of all roses,
She's the breath of sweet posies,
She's as pure as the brood in the nest of the dove.

Of Earth's fairest daughters,
Voiced like falling waters,
She walks down the meadows, than blossoms more fair.
O her bosom right fair is,
And her rose cheek so rare is,
And parted and lovely her glossy black hair.
Her bosom's soft whiteness!
The sun in its brightness
Has never been seen so bewilderingly fair.

The dewy grass glitters,
The house swallow twitters,
And through the sky floats in its visions of bliss;
The lark soars on high,
On cowslips dews lie,
And the last days of Summer are nothing like this.
When Mary Ann rambles
Through hedgerows and brambles,
The soft gales of Spring are the seasons of bliss.