A man rummages through the moorlands
For a heart that was stolen long back;

She was his first love
The truest, sincerest of them all

And hiding in every bush and every bower
In every blooming flower
He sees his Mary, waiting to be his.

Two lovers meet at the pink hue of dusk
Merrily beneath the green tree
And Mary’s eyes shine as she pines
For their hearts to be forever intertwined

But hiding in every bush and every bower
In every blooming flower
He sees his Mary, waiting to be his

Yet, as she departs, her clairvoyant heart
Knew not what would unfold
As the waves rush by the green tree
They stand forever apart by the banks of the Lee

But hiding in every bush and every bower
In every blooming flower
He sees his Mary, waiting to be his.

It is often now that he searches for roses
Plucking the fairest from the thorns
As every tear rolling down his cheek is a memory
And every smile, a reminder of a new day being born
For he goes to his Mary everyday
And he embellishes her with the roses he picked
Lying right there by her graveside
Where she blissfully sleeps beneath the dew

And still, hiding in every bush and every bower
In every blooming flower
He sees his Mary, waiting to be his.