Songs of the Ridings

Mary Mecca

Mary Mecca,^[1] Mary Mecca,
I’m fain to see thee here,
A Devon lass to fill my glass
O’ home-brewed Yorkshire beer.
I awlus said that foreigners
Sud niver mel on me;
But sike a viewly face as thine
I’d travel far to see.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,
I’m sad to see thee here,
Wheer t’ wind blaws hask^[2] frae Norway
I’ t’ spring-time o’ the year.
I’d liever finnd thee sittin’,
Wi’ a bowl o’ cruds an’ cream,
Wheer t’ foxglove bells ring through the dells,
Anent a Dartmoor stream.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,
The way thou snods thy hair,
It maks my heart go dancin’
Like winnlestraws^[3] i’ t’ air.
One neet I heard thee singin’,
As I cam home frae toon;
’Twas sweet as curlews makkin’ love
Agean a risin’ moon.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,
I dream o’ thy gray een;
I think on all I’ve wasted,
An’ what I might hae been.
I’m nowt but muck off t’ midden,
So all I axe is this:
Just blaw the froth from off my yal^[4];
’Twill seem most like a kiss.

[1] Metcalfe.

[2] Keenly.

[3] Whisps of grass or straw.

[4] Ale.