That milk and cream abound
Within the compass of an Eastern pod.
No more shall we behold,
As in the days of old,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea;
Or Mary, mid the foam,
Calling her cattle home,
Across the sands, the perilous sands o' Dee.
Mourn, Alderney, and mourn,
O maiden all forlorn,