He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my
hand he pressed,
By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he
confessed;
And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and
yet again;
But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted
Jane!
He said that I was proud, mother,—that I looked for rank
and gold;
He said I did not love him,—he said my words were
cold;
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher
game—
And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done
the same?
I did not know my heart, mother,—I know it now too
late;
I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler
mate;
But no nobler suitor sought me,—and he has taken wing,
And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted
thing.
You may lay me in my "bed, mother,—my head is throb-
bing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And, if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding
child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother—and, mother, draw it mild!
[Original Size]
THE MEETING
Once I lay beside a fountain,
Lulled me with its gentle song,
And my thoughts o'er dale and mountain
With the clouds were borne along.