For the change of the face of thy colour I know thee not whence thou art!
Alas for the going of swiftness, for the feet of the running of thee,
When thou wentest among the swords, and the shoutings of Captain’s made shrill!
Woe is me for the pleasant places! yea, one shall say of thy glee,
“It is not,” and as for delight the feet of thy dancing are still.
Translation.
Where are those eyes that were so mild
When of my heart you me beguiled?
Why did you skedaddle from me and the child?
O, Johnnie, I hardly knew you.