Poems
Lovely Mary Donnelly
Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best
If fifty girls were round you, I’d hardly see the rest;
Be what it may the time o’ day, the place be where it will
Sweet looks o’ Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Her eyes like mountain water that’s flowing on a rock,
How clear they are, how dark they are! they give me many a shock.
Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower,
Could ne’er express the charming lip that has me in its power.
Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup,
Her hair’s the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine;
It’s rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.
The dance o’ last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before,
No pretty girl from miles about was missing from the floor;
But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay!
She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,
The music nearly killed itself to her feet;
The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,
But blessed his luck not to be deaf when once her voice she raised.
And evermore I’m whistling or lilting what you sung,
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;
But you’ve as many sweethearts as you’d count on both your hands,
And for myself there’s not a thumb or little finger stands.
Oh, you’re the flower o’ womankind in country or in town;
The higher I exalt you, the lower I’m cast down.
If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright.
And you to be his lady, I’d own it was but right.
Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall,
Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods or grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty’s my distress,
It’s far too beauteous to be mine, but I’ll never wish it less.
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go.
If fifty girls were round you, I’d hardly see the rest;
Be what it may the time o’ day, the place be where it will
Sweet looks o’ Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Her eyes like mountain water that’s flowing on a rock,
How clear they are, how dark they are! they give me many a shock.
Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower,
Could ne’er express the charming lip that has me in its power.
Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup,
Her hair’s the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine;
It’s rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.
The dance o’ last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before,
No pretty girl from miles about was missing from the floor;
But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay!
She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,
The music nearly killed itself to her feet;
The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,
But blessed his luck not to be deaf when once her voice she raised.
And evermore I’m whistling or lilting what you sung,
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;
But you’ve as many sweethearts as you’d count on both your hands,
And for myself there’s not a thumb or little finger stands.
Oh, you’re the flower o’ womankind in country or in town;
The higher I exalt you, the lower I’m cast down.
If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright.
And you to be his lady, I’d own it was but right.
Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall,
Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods or grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty’s my distress,
It’s far too beauteous to be mine, but I’ll never wish it less.
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go.
Analysis (ai): The speaker’s voice blends admiration with self-deprecating resignation, framing love as both inspiration and torment. His focus remains fixed on one woman, yet he acknowledges his peripheral status among her many admirers—an emotional stance more nuanced than simple infatuation.
- Imagery and Symbolism: Natural imagery—mountain water, rowans, sunshine, showers—grounds the idealized beauty in the Irish landscape. These references align with 19th-century regional romanticism but avoid mythological abstraction, keeping Mary tangible rather than allegorical.
- Form and Rhythm: The poem uses ballad-like quatrains with a regular ABAB rhyme scheme and alternating iambic meter, consistent with Allingham’s preference for musicality. This structure supports oral tradition roots, distinguishing it from more complex forms emerging in the mid-Victorian period.
- Place in the Author’s Work: Unlike Allingham’s folklore-infused Songs and Ballads, this poem centers on a named individual, suggesting autobiographical undercurrents rare in his otherwise impersonal lyrical output. Its specificity marks a departure from his usual archetypal figures.
- Emotional Dynamics: Rather than portraying unrequited love as noble, the speaker exposes its asymmetry: he celebrates Mary while recognizing his expendability. This undermines romantic idealization—the less-discussed tension between devotion and disposability.
- Social Context: The Whit-Monday dance scene reflects rural Irish sociability, a common setting in regional poetry of the era. Yet unlike contemporaries who emphasize national identity or political undertones, the poem resists politicization, focusing instead on personal longing.
- Class and Aspiration: Fantasies of palace life contrast sharply with the cottage dream, revealing internal conflict between social realism and romantic yearning. The speaker accepts inequality not as injustice but as inevitability, aligning with Victorian class consciousness.
- Comparison to Other Works: While many of Allingham’s poems feature ethereal female figures, Mary is described with physical precision—chin, nose, hair—making her unusually concrete. This detail-oriented praise diverges from the dreamlike women in “The Faeries.”
- Temporal Position: Written during a period favoring moral seriousness in poetry, the work embraces sentiment without didacticism. Its emotional transparency contrasts with the restrained irony gaining traction in later Victorian and emerging modernist verse.
- Legacy and Reception: Though less anthologized than his folk-inspired pieces, this poem stands out for its sustained intimacy. Its relative obscurity may stem from its unapologetic sincerity, a trait less emphasized in studies of 19th-century British Isles poetry.
William Allingham (19 March 1824 – 18 November 1889) was an Irish poet, diarist and editor. He wrote several volumes of lyric verse, and his poem “The Faeries” was much anthologised. But he is better known for his posthumously published Diary, in which he records his lively encounters with Tennyson, Carlyle and other writers and artists. His wife, Helen Allingham, was a well-known artist, watercolourist and illustrator.
