They long for her hand in vain.
Spring, summer, autumn, winter,
Morning and evening, over and o’er!
The bees come back with the willow catkins,
But Marjory comes no more.
The voice of the far-off city called to her.
Was it long years or an hour ago?
She went away, with dear eyes weeping,
To a world she did not know.
The berried pastures they could not keep her,