Long evenings full on longing Low-spirited my mornings Full of longing too my nights And all times the bitterest. 'tis my lovely I long for It is my darling I miss My black-browed one I grieve for.
There's no hearing my treasure No seeing my marten-breat No hearing her in the lane Driving below the window Chopping the wood by the stack Clinking outside the cook-house:
In the eart my berry lies In the soil she's mouldering Under the sand my sweet one Beneath the grass my treasure The one I grieve for.
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