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Down yonder green valley where streamlets meander, |
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When twilight is fading, I pensively rove, |
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Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander |
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Amid the dark shades of the lonely Ash grove. |
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'Twas there while the blackbird was joyfully singing, |
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I first met my dear one, the joy of my heart; |
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Around us for gladness the bluebells were ringing, |
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Ah! then little thought I how soon we should part. |
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Still grows the bright sunshine o'er valley and mountain, |
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Still warbles the blackbird his note from the tree; |
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Still trembles the moonbeam on streamlet and fountain, |
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But what are the beauties of nature to me. |
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With sorrow, deep sorrow, my bosom is laden, |
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All day I go mourning in search of my love. |
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Ye echoes, O tell me, where is the sweet maiden? |
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She sleeps 'neath the green turf down by the Ash grove. |
