Nor hear the song at the cabin door.
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we’ll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.”
“Is my mother gone from her home away?
But I know that my brothers are there at play—
I know they are gathering the foxglove’s bell,
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well;
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow—
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”
“Fair child! thy brothers are wanderers now,