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.