She is far from the land Where her young
hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing; But coldly she turns From their gaze, and weeps, For her heart
in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs Of her dear native plains, Ev'ry note which she loved awakening
- Ah! little they think Who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
He had lived
for his love, For his country he died, They were all that to life Had entwined him - Nor soon shall the tears Of
his country be dried, Nor long will his love Stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave Where the sunbeams rest, When
they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep Like a smile from the West, From her own loved Island
of sorrow.
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