And young Lovel cried, “O where dost thou hide?
I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.”
O the mistletoe bough! O the mistletoe bough!
They sought her that night, they sought her next day,
They sought her in vain till a week passed away;
The highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovel sought wildly, but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past.
When Lovel appeared the children cried,