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;