There some one spinning merrilie!
A faltering question then he ventured:
"My name, kind sir, is Marjorie."
"Great God!" he cried, in voice all trembling,
And sank upon a crazy chair,
And tried to trace a strange resembling
In her who sat beside him there.

A maiden she still young and buxom,
Nor change but what ten years may bring,
Her hair still of the glossy flaxen,
Her eyes still blue as halcyon's wing.
He traced the lines, he knew each feature
Of all her still unfaded charms;
And now this long lost, worshipped creature
Is locked fast in his loving arms.

"Look up! look up! thy fear controlling,
It is thy Willie's voice that calls:"
She oped her eyes--now wildly rolling
All o'er his face the lustrous balls--
"It is, it is---oh, powers most holy!
And I had heard that thou wert dead;
And here, in spite of melancholy,
I still spin for my daily bread."

"'Twas Friar John wrote me a letter,
He said he saw thee on thy bier;
And sore I mourned with tears, oh bitter!
For one I ever loved so dear."