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.