There's a bonny wild rose on the mountain-side,
Mary Hamilton.
In the glare of noon she hath droop'd and died,
Mary Hamilton.
Soft and still is the evening shower,
Pattering kindly on brake and bower ;
But it falls too late for the perish'd flower,
Mary Hamilton.

There's a lamb lies lost at the head of the glen,
Mary Hamilton.
Lost and miss'd from shieling and pen,
Mary Hamilton.
The shepherd has sought it in toil and heat.
And sore he strove when he heard it bleat,
Ere he wins to the lamb it lies dead at his feet,
Mary Hamilton.

The mist is gathering ghostly and chill,
Mary Hamilton.
And the weary maid cometh down from the hill,
Mary Hamilton.
The weary maid but she's home at last,
And she trieth the door, but the door is fast,
For the sun is down and the curfew past,
Mary Hamilton.

Too late for the rose the evening rain,
Mary Hamilton,
Too late for the lamb the shepherd's pain,
Mary Hamilton.
Too late at the door the maiden's stroke.
Too late for the plea when the doom hath been spoke,
Too late the balm when the heart is broke,
Mary Hamilton.