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!