Song
While pensive I thought on my love,
The moon on the mountain was bright;
And Philomel down in the grove
Broke sweetly the silence of night.
Oh, I wished that the tear-drop would flow!
But I felt too much anguish to weep;
Till, worn with the weight of my woe,
I sunk on my pillow to sleep.
Methought that my love as I lay,
His ringlets all clotted with gore,
In the paleness of death seemed to say,
" Alas! we must never meet more!
" Yes, yes, my beloved! we must part;
The moon on the mountain was bright;
And Philomel down in the grove
Broke sweetly the silence of night.
Oh, I wished that the tear-drop would flow!
But I felt too much anguish to weep;
Till, worn with the weight of my woe,
I sunk on my pillow to sleep.
Methought that my love as I lay,
His ringlets all clotted with gore,
In the paleness of death seemed to say,
" Alas! we must never meet more!
" Yes, yes, my beloved! we must part;
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