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.