As the hart on the mountain my lover was brave,
So handsome, so manly, and clever;
So kind and sincere, and he loved me so dear,
Oh, Edwin, thy equal was never.
But now he is dead, and gone to death’s bed,
He’s cut down like a rose in full bloom;
He’s fallen asleep, and poor Jane’s left to weep,
By the sweet silver light of the moon.
Roll on, &c.
But his grave I’ll seek out until morning appears,