These are not dewdrops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed,
For absent Robin, who she fears,
With too much cause, is dead.
One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come,
And, on her finger perch’d, to stand
Picking his breakfast crumb.
Alarm’d, she called him, and perplex’d,
She sought him, but in vain;