Chorus.
All cheerless and lonely here I sorrow;
No fond ray of hope is seen each morrow,
My heart has refused fresh love to borrow;
It turns to the wood-crowned island.
Like beautiful sheen of rosy morning
The glow of thy cheek is sweetly burning;
The troth of my love if thou art spurning
Soon linen and sods will shroud me.
For thine is the charm that wins devotion