Sung by: Mrs. T.F. Guthrie of San Antonio, TX

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One night when the wind, it blew cold,
Blew bitter across the wild moor,
Young Mary, she came with her child,
Wandering home to her own father’s door.
“Oh, why did I leave this fair cot,
Where once I was happy and free?
Doomed to roam without friends and a home.
Oh, Father, take pity on me.
Oh, Father--oh, pray let me in.
Take pity on me, I implore,
Or the child at my bosom will die
From the winds that blow ‘cross the wild moor.”

But the father was deaf to her cry.
Not a sound of her voice reached his door,
And the watchdogs did bark, and the winds
Blew bitter across the wild moor.
Oh, how must the father have felt
When he came to the door in the morn
And saw Mary dead with her child
Fondly clasped in his dead mother’s arms?
In frenzy, he tore his gray hair,
As on Mary he gazed at the door,
And the watchdogs did bark, and the wind
Blew bitter across the wild moor.

The father in grief pined away;
The babe to the grave was soon borne,
And no one lives there to this day.
The cottage to ruin has gone,
And the villagers point at the spot
Where the willow weeps over the door,
Saying, “There Mary perished and died
From the winds that blew ‘cross the wild moor.”

Also found in Randolph, Vol. I, #72, “The Wild Moor”; Brown, Vol. II, #78, “Mary of the Wild Moor”; Belden p. 207, “Mary of the Wild Moor.”

All Songs Recorded by John Quincy Wolf, Jr., unless otherwise noted

The John Quincy Wolf Folklore Collection
Lyon College, Batesville, Arkansas
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