Gently, sorrowfully sang the maid
B. Burrows
Gently, sorrowfully sang the maid
Sowing the ploughed field over,
And her song was only:
"Come, O my lover!"
Strangely, strangely shone the light,
Stilly wound the river:
"Thy love is a dead man,
He'll come back never."
Sadly, sadly passed the maid
The fading dark hills over;
Still her song far, far away said:
"Come, O my lover!"