Sweet Jenny by the Solway Sands,
Fair Jenny by the Cree;
This rose that once lay in thy hands,
Still speaks and breathes of thee.
Again the spell my fancies weave
Still shows thee standing there,
While all the winds of summer leave
A glory round thy hair.
The winds come from the Solway Sands,
They touch thy gentle cheek,
Then bear away to other lands
The thoughts I fain would speak.
Ah! hope that comes, and hope that grows,
With visions sweet to see;
Thou paler sister of the rose,
Thou lily not for me.
But I shall dream, and, in my dreams,
Shall see thee standing there,
The flowers beside thee and the beams
Of summer in thy hair.
Sweet Jenny by the Solway Sands,
Fair Jenny by the Cree,
Ah! that this rose that left thy hands
Is all I have of thee.