List’ning, her hand supports her chin;

But, ah! no foot is heard to stir:

He comes not, from the garden, in;

Nor he, nor little bobtail cur.

They cannot come, sweet maid! to thee;

Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!

And what’s impossible can’t be;

And never, never, comes to pass!

She paces thro’ the hall antique,

To call her Thomas from his toil;