She’s up and gone, the graceless girl,

And robb’d my failing years!

My blood before was thin and cold

But now ’tis turn’d to tears; —

My shadow falls upon my grave,

So near the brink I stand,

She might have stay’d a little yet,

And led me by the hand!

Aye, call her on the barren moor,

And call her on the hill:

’Tis nothing but the heron’s cry,

And plover’s answer shrill............