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the rustic maiden to her lover.
Oh! who would ask a happier lot?
I would not change it now
For all the bright and glittering gems
That deck a monarch's brow.
I would not change it now
For all the bright and glittering gems
That deck a monarch's brow.
For well the great Philosopher
Of poets truly said,
A "golden sorrow" is their lot,
Encircled round their head.
Of poets truly said,
A "golden sorrow" is their lot,
Encircled round their head.
You think that I must weep, to leave
The home I love so well;—
The deep devotion of her heart,
A maiden may not tell.
The home I love so well;—
The deep devotion of her heart,
A maiden may not tell.
Long as the object of her love
Is worthy in her eyes,
She never dreams that she can make
Too great a sacrifice.
Is worthy in her eyes,
She never dreams that she can make
Too great a sacrifice.
And when unto the Western wilds
I go, thy home to bless,
Thou then perhaps will learn the depth
Of woman's tenderness.
I go, thy home to bless,
Thou then perhaps will learn the depth
Of woman's tenderness.
