For a maid again I can never be,

Till the red rose blooms on the willow tree.

Of such a trouble I've heard them tell,

And now I know what it means full well.

As through the long lonesome night I lie,

I'd give the world if I might but cry;

But I mus'n't moan there or raise my voice,

And the tears run down without any noise.

And what, O what will my mother say?

She'll wish her daughter was in the clay.

My father will curse me to my face;

The neighbours will know of my black disgrace.

My sister's buried three years, come Lent;

But sure we made far too much lament.

Beside her grave they still say a prayer—

I wish to God 'twas myself was there!

The Candlemas crosses hang near my bed;

To look at them puts me much in dread,

They mark the good time that's gone and past:

It's like this year's one will prove the last.

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