For her lost mate began to coo,
Which made me think of my mate too.
Ah! little dove, you’re not alone,
For I, like you, can only mourn;
I once, like you, did have a mate,
But now, like you, am desolate.
Consumption seized my love severe
And preyed upon her one long year,
Till death came at the break of day,
And my poor Mary he did slay.