Song

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!"