behold the hour, the boat, arrive!
my dearest nancy, o fareweel!
severed frae thee, can i survive,
frae thee whom i hae lov'd sae weel?
endless and deep shall be my grief;
lnae ray of comfort shall i see,
but this most precious, dear belief,
that thou wilt still remember me!
alang the solitary shore
where flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
across the rolling, dashing roar,
i'll westward turn my wishful eye.
“happy thou indian grove,” i'll say,
“where now my nancy's path shall be!
while thro' your sweets she holds her way,
o tell me, does she muse on me?”