Beneath the roof that saw my birth;
Have mourned with one to grief a prey—
A mother by her lonely hearth.
Day after day my step she hears,
And looks the well known form to see;
Listens—then weeps more bitter tears—
Oh! speak ye of her love to me?
Is my fair sister yet a bride?
Saw ye the gay and youthful throng
That hailed, close pressing to her side,