Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
And lace my boddice blue.

"For why," she cries, "sit still and weep,
While others dance and play?"
Alas! I scarce can go or creep,
While Lubin is away.

'Tis sad to think the days are gone,
When those we love were near;
I sit upon this mossy stone,
And sigh when none can hear.

And while I spin my flaxen thread,
And sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep or dead,
Now Lubin is away.




THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.[4]


Adieu! ye streams that smoothly glide,
Through mazy windings o'er the plain;
I 'll in some lonely cave reside,
And ever mourn my faithful swain.

Flower of the forest was my love,