Curse on his hand—for thy true love
Is number’d with the dead.
Poor maiden! like the lily frail,
’Twas all in vain you strove;
You heard the stranger’s tender tale—
But where was thy true love?
Thou wast unkind and false to him,
But he did constant prove;
He plung’d headlong in the stream—
Farewel, farewel, my love!