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Wise woman! in ages to come;
Thy malice detested shall be;
And when we are cold in the tomb,
Some heart still will sorrow for me.

The roofs, where cold damps and dismay
With silence and solitude dwell,
How comfortless passes, the day!
How sad tolls the evening bell!
The owls from the battlements cry,
Hollow winds seem to murmur around,
O Mary, prepare thee to die,
My blood it runs cold at the sound.


THE WILLOW TREE.

(illegible text) take me to your arms my love,
For keen the wind doth blow;
(illegible text) take me to your arms, my love,
For bitter is my woe.
She hears me not, she cares not,
Nor will she list to me;
And here I lie in misery,
Beneath the willow tree.

My love has wealth and beauty,
The rich attend her dear: