From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 2, 1914. By John Lowe.
The moon had climbed the highest hill
That rises o’er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea;
When, soft and low, a voice was heard
Saying, “Mary, weep no more for me.”
She from her pillow gently raised
Her head to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand
With visage pale and hollow e’e.
“Oh, Mary dear, cold is my clay,
It lies beneath a stormy sea;
Far, far from thee I sleep in death,
So Mary, weep no more for me.
“Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main;
And long we strove our barque to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee.
The storm is past and I at rest,
So Mary, weep no more for me.
“Oh, maiden dear, thyself prepare!
We soon shall meet upon that shore
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more!”
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled;
No more of Sandy could she see,
But soft the passing spirit said,
“Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!”