Come closer my friend I have a tale to tell ye

About a bonnie young lass they called sweet Mary

Hair of scarlet red and eyes of deep green

With a smile like sunshine, a sight to be seen

She was born of the forest, her parents unknown

But rumors have it her father was a royal Irish gnome

Be it true or be it false, Sweet Mary will not tell

 And her Grandmother speaks not, as if under a magical spell

Sweet Mary and her Grandmother live high in the hills

  Gathering wild fruits of all kind and tending to their stills

Now and then you might see them selling their liquid wares

From the back of a wagon in the town’s little central square

They label it medicinal to keep the constable at bay

Slipping him a bottle or two now and then and receiving no pay

The young lads of the town gather and stare at Sweet Mary

Searching for the courage to speak but being ever so wary

She is somewhat mystical in form an almost magical creature

The young lads have not a clue on how they might reach her

          For each time a single lad has attempted to approach and then speak

No words roll from his lips, not even the slightest of squeaks

They fall under her spell as she flashes green eyes in their direction

And in an instant they fall mute from some mysterious affliction

 The years they rolled by and Sweet Mary’s Grandmother was no more

Yet Sweet Mary carried on as she had heretofore

Rain or shine you could find her alone in the town square

Still vibrant and smiling with a bright flower in her hair

She had aged not a day growing lovelier with the years

Yet, if you looked more closely you might notice an occasional tear

On a warm day in May with the flowers all in bloom

Sweet Mary arrived in the square holding a bouquet of scotch broom     

As dusk settled in and Sweet Mary prepared to depart

A mysterious figure approached her as if he had something to impart

He said nothing out loud but instead whispered quietly in her ear

His words known only to her as no other person could hear

She reached for his hand and he lifted her slowly to the wagon seat

And then she beckoned for him to join her in a manner e’er so sweet

The wagon rolled toward the nearby hills never to be seen again

Lost forever in the quiet seclusion of a long forgotten glen

           The words the stranger whispered to Sweet Mary are never to be known

But it is said that he that spoke them must have been a princely Irish gnome

©Copyright Charlie Gragg. November 27, 2010