She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around
her are sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking;
Ah! Little they think, who delight in her
How the heart of her minstrel is breaking.
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay
Oh! Make her a grave where the sunbeams rest
When they promise a glorious morrow:
oŽer her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own loved island of sorrow.