Regret

What makes that lulling brook complain,
While softly round the valley sweeping ;
What makes the blackbird's morning strain
Sound like the voice of woe and weeping ?

Alas ! I fear the sylvan bower
Has lost its sweets of morn and even,
Since I have flung the sweetest flower,
That ever breathed the breeze of heaven.

Sing on, thou bonny bird of Spring I
Thy little heart with love is heaving ;
Far hast thou wandered on the wing,
But not thy love behind thee leaving :
But I have left my native glade,
The silent bower, and scented blossom !

And I have left the sweetest maid,
That ever heaved a snowy bosom !

I saw the round, the crystal tear,
How could my stern reproach abuse her !

I loved her — yes — I loved her dear —
How could my jealous mind accuse her !

How often from the evening fall
I've wooed her fondly till the morrow ;
She gave her heart — it was her all, —
And yet I left that heart to sorrow.

Sing on, thou bonny bird of morn,
Above the broom-wood waving yellow ;
Thy love sits listening in the thorn
Delighted with thy music mellow.

Thou call'st the red sun from the sea ;
He hastes above the wave to hear thee ;
The evening star steals o'er the tree,
With simple ray of love to cheer thee.

Long may thy melody renew
The fondest hope of faithful lover ;
And morning weave her mantle blue
Thy dwelling in the greenwood over.