Can I forget thee, Walter!—no,
For whom my first fond sigh arose;
Then how canst thou forget me so?
'Tis this that fills my cup with wo.
Yes, Walter, I would still be thine,
And wish that we no more might sever;
This thought 's too dear, 'tis too divine,
My Walter's heart is constant ever.
But I will love, till death's cold sod
Shall wrap me underneath the gloom;
My woes I'll spread before my God,
And there my prayers for thee shall bloom.
Canst thou forget me, Walter, say?
Will Margaret's love forgotten live?
O, ask the wave's unsteady way,
Canst thou a better moral give.
Though happiness is short, 'twas ours—
Too dear for me, too fond to last;
When thou wert mine and I was yours—
But must I say 'tis gone, 'tis past!
But O, when days with me are o'er,
And silent in the grave I lie,
O then, when Margaret is no more,
Weep o'er her tomb, breathe there one sigh.
