Yet sad must be the song you sing,
A withered flower on the stalk.
The elms overhead are sighing,
The solemn rooks around are flying,
Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!
And once ’twas here we walked alone,
In that sweet hush of eventide,
Before thy heart had turned to stone,
Before thy love for me had died.
The elms overhead are sighing,