So lonesome-like since from my love I parted,
That when the bracken on your sides is springing,
And all the mating thrushes start a-singing,
A kind of fear across my mind comes creeping,
I feel as though I’d surely fall a-weeping!
O Casend Hill, the Spring does not forsake you,
At winter’s close the sun comes back to wake you;
And year by year the same sweet wind it passes,
To stir the lark that’s nesting in your grasses;
But no one comes to ask me how I’m faring,