The {076}sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing
fair,
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me!
They are going to the church, mother,--I hear the mar-
riage-bell;
It booms along the upland,--oh! it haunts me like a
knell;
He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering
step,
And closely to his side she clings,--she does, the demirep!
They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft
have stood,
The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the
wood;
And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words
that won my ear,
Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal
fere.
He will pass {077}beside the stream, mother, where first my
hand he pressed,
By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he
confessed;
And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and
yet again;
But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted
Jane!
He said that I was proud, mother,--that I looked for rank
and gold;
He said I did not love him,--he said my words were
cold;
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher
game--
And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done
the same?
I did not know my heart, mother,--I know it now too
late;
I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler
mate;
But no nobler suitor sought me,--and he has taken wing,
And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted
thing.
You {078}may lay me in my "bed, mother,--my head is throb-
bing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And, if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding
child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother--and, mother, draw it mild!
[Illustration: 090]