The corn may spring, the corn may spring,

And thou beside the river walk;

Yet sad must be the song you sing,

A withered flower on the stalk.

The elms overhead are sighing,

The solemn rooks around are flying,

Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!

And once ’twas here we walked alone,

In that sweet hush of eventide,

Before thy heart had turned to stone,

Before thy love for me had died.

The elms overhead are sighing,

The solemn rooks around are flying,

Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!

Beyond the fence in peace I sleep,

And soughing breezes kiss my grave.

I hear my name, and thou dost weep,

For I was fair and thou wert brave.

The elms overhead are sighing,

The solemn rooks around are flying,

Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!

I hear thee coming through the gate,

I feel thee kneeling at my head.

I hear thy cry, “Too late! Too late!”