They are going to the church, mother,—I hear the marriage bell:
It booms along the upland, oh! it haunts me like a knell;
He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,
And closely by his side she clings,—she does, the demirep!
They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,
The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;
And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,
Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.
He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed,
By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed: