“Alas! how cold thy home! how low thou art! 
Who wert the pride and mistress of my heart. 
The fallen leaves light rustling o’er thee pass,
And o’er thee waves the rank and dewy grass. 
The new laid sods in decent order tell
How narrow now the space where thou must dwell. 
Now rough and wint’ry winds may on thee beat,
And drizzly drifting snow, and summer’s heat;
Each passing season rub, for woe is me! 
Or storm, or sunshine, is the same to thee. 
Ah, Mary! lovely was thy slender form,
And sweet thy cheerful brow, that knew no storm. 
Thy steps were graceful on the village-green,
As tho’ thou had’st some courtly lady been: 
At church or market, still the gayest lass,
Each younker slack’d his speed to see thee pass. 
At early milking, tuneful was thy lay,
And sweet thy homeward song at close of day;
But sweeter far, and ev’ry youth’s desire,
Thy cheerful converse by the ev’ning fire. 
Alas! no more thou’lt foot the grassy sward! 
No song of thine shall ever more be heard! 
Yet now they trip it lightly on the green,
As blythe and gay as thou hadst never been: 
The careless younker whittles lightsome by,
And other maidens catch his roving eye: 
Around the ev’ning fire, with little care,
The neighbours sit, and scarcely miss thee there;
And when the night advancing darkens round,
They to their rest retire, and slumber sound. 
But Basil cannot rest; his days are sad,
And long his nights upon the weary bed. 
Yet still in broken dreams thy form appears,
And still my bosom proves a lover’s fears. 
I guide thy footsteps thro’ the tangled wood;
I catch thee sinking in the boist’rous flood;
I shield thy bosom from the threaten’d stroke;
I clasp thee falling from the headlong rock;
But ere we reach the dark and dreadful deep,
High heaves my troubled breast, I wake, and weep. 
At ev’ry wailing of the midnight wind
Thy lowly dwelling comes into my mind. 
When rain beats on my roof, wild storms abroad,
I think upon thy bare and beaten sod;
I hate the comfort of a shelter’d home,
And hie me forth o’er fenceless fields to roam: 
I leave the paths of men for dreary waste,
And bare my forehead to the howling blast. 
O Mary! loss of thee hath fix’d my doom: 
This world around me is a weary gloom: 
Dull heavy musings down my spirits weigh,
I cannot sleep by night, nor work by day. 
Or wealth or pleasure slowest minds inspire,
But cheerless is their toil who nought desire. 
Let happier friends divide my farmers’ dock,
Cut down my grain, and sheer my little flock;
For now my only care on earth shall be
Here ev’ry Sunday morn to visit thee;
And in the holy church, with heart sincere,
And humble mind, our worthy curate hear: 
He best can tell, when earthly cares are past,
The surest way to meet with thee at last. 
I’ll thus a while a weary life abide,
Till wasting Time hath laid me by thy side;
For now on earth there is no place for me,
Nor peace, nor slumber, till I rest with thee.”