The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing
fair,
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother,—I hear the mar-
riage-bell;
It booms along the upland,—oh! it haunts me like a
knell;
He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering
step,
And closely to his side she clings,—she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft
have stood,
The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the
wood;
And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words
that won my ear,
Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal
fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my
hand he pressed,
By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he
confessed;
And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and
yet again;
But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted
Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother,—that I looked for rank
and gold;
He said I did not love him,—he said my words were
cold;
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher
game—
And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done
the same?

I did not know my heart, mother,—I know it now too
late;
I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler
mate;
But no nobler suitor sought me,—and he has taken wing,
And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted
thing.

You may lay me in my "bed, mother,—my head is throb-
bing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And, if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding
child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother—and, mother, draw it mild!