Whence pent-up waters steal,
And leaving the abyss,
Fall foaming through the wheel,
Though people often tell
Of millers' wives so fair,
Yet none can e'er excel
Our dearest daughter there!
Yet where the thick-set green
Stands round yon church and sad,
Where the old fir-tree's seen
Alone tow'rd heaven to nod,—
'Tis there the ashes lie
Of our untimely dead;
From earth our gaze on high
By their blest memory's led.
See how yon hill is bright