Letter From Mary Of Mourne recorded C 1910 Now Terry, me boy, don't you think it's my due, to be hearin' a little more frequent from you? I can't think yer workin' so early & late but you've quite a few moments, if only to shake. How much, if there's any, of good Saxon gold in your old Irish purse you've been able to fold? And to say when you're likely to come back to me where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea?
But per'aps it's the ladies that take up your time? and Mary's no longer the same as yer rhyme? I can't understand what's come o'er yer at all, to watch all the women half-dressed at a ball. If that's the best work that yer findin' to do,,, a grand place like London's not much use to you. It's meself that is thinkin' how better you'd be where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the Sea.
It's scarce three years since we walked by the shore, yes Terry, it's only ten months since you swore that come good or ill, you'd ever be true to the little Colleen who was plighted to you. Now of girls in London I know you've enough with complexions that's borrered from whitenin' & stuff And shapes that are shapeless a sight they would be where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the Sea.
Your story of Peter O'Lauglin's a lie,,, to think that ye'd write it, it near makes me cry. He's only one stripe while O'Flynn RIC, who is better than both of yer now has got three. And little birds whisper if I'm not mistook that O'Laughlin's in love with a fat English cook. But O'Laughlin & you need be nothin' to me where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
Transcribed by EMGColonel ~2014 with a couple of edits by me.