TUNE--'LOGAN WATER.'

AT eve, when Dee's transparent stream
Flows trembling 'neath the moon's pale beam,
Lone on its banks I sit and mourn,
For him who now will ne'er return!
How blest was I each cheerful morn,
Ere he from me by War was torn!
But now my tears must ever flow
For him who far, far hence lies low!
He grasp'd me to his manly breast--
His love in softest strains exprest,
While down his cheek there stole a tear,
Which spoke his parting pang sincere:
'My love!' said he, 'O do not mourn!
'Think on our joys, when I return
'With blooming laurel round my brow!'
But, ah! he far, far hence lies low!
Had we been bound with HYMEN 's chain,
With freedom then I might complain;
But now the maidens mock my pain,
Who love my dear lamented, swain.
Here ev'ry eve I sit alone--
To Dee's soft murmurs tell my moan,
While sighing zephyrs join my woe,
For him who far, far hence lies low!