A Ballad.

    I.

    I cannot rest o' the night, Mother,
        For my heart is cold and wan:
    I fear the return o' light, Mother,
        Since my own true love is gone.
    O winsome aye was his face, Mother,
        And tender his bright blue eye;
    But his beauty and manly grace, Mother,
        Beneath the dark earth do lie.


    II.

    They tell me that I am young, Mother,
        That joy will return once more;
    But sorrow my heart has wrung, Mother,
        And I feel the wound full sore.
    The tree at the root frost-bitten
        Will flourish never again,
    And the woe that my life hath smitten
        Hath frozen each inmost vein.


    III.

    Whene'er the moon's shining clear, Mother,
        I think o' my lover that's gone;
    Heaven seem'd to draw very near, Mother,
        As above us in glory it shone.
    Ah! whither hath fled all my gladness?
        Ah! would from life I could fly!
    That laying me down in my sadness
        I might kiss thee, my Mother, and die!