Took back your hand and left me to my way,
Traveled so long that I can see the tomb
At the vista's end not very far.
Oh, love,
Why is there not a heart that loves but mine?
If you had been a Magdalen, I had pressed
Your head against my breast and kept you there—
But you—my spirit drifts with stricken wings—
But you because of gossip, crawling words
About my drinking, lies as I shall prove,