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Song :
The morn was fair, the skies were clear,
No breath came o'er the sea,
When Mary left her Highland cot,
And wander'd forth with me;
Tho' flower's deck'd the mountain's side,
And fragrance fill'd the vale,
By far the sweetest flower there,
Was the Rose of Allandale,
Was the Rose of Allandale,
the Rose of Allandale,
By far the sweetest flower there,
Was the Rose of Allandale.
Where'er I wander'd east or west,
Tho' fate began to lour,
A solace still was she to me,
In sorrow's lonely hour.
When tempests lash'd our gallant bark,
And rent her shiv'ring sail,
One maiden form withstood the storm,
'Twas the Rose of Allandale,
'Twas the Rose of Allandale,
the Rose of Allandale,
One maiden form withstood the storm,
'Twas the Rose of Allandale.
And when my fever'd lips were parched
On Afric's burning sand,
She whisper'd hopes of happiness,
And tales of distant land.
My life had been a wilderness,
Unblest by fortune's gale,
Had fate not link'd my lot to hers,
The Rose of Allandale,
The Rose of Allandale,
the Rose of Allandale,
Had fate not link'd my lot to hers,
The Rose of Allandale.
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