Уильям Мазервелл (William Motherwell)

* * *

He is gone! he is gone!
  Like the leaf from the tree,
Or the down that is blown
  By the wind o'er the lea.
He is fled--the light-hearted!
Yet a tear must have started
To his eye when he parted
  From love-stricken me!

He is fled! he is fled!
  Like a gallant so free--
Plumed cap on his head,
  And sharp sword by his knee;
While his gay feathers flutter'd,
Surely something he mutter'd--
He at least must have utter'd
  A farewell to me!

He 's away! he 's away!
  To far lands o'er the sea,
And long is the day
  Ere home he can be;
But where'er his steed prances
Amid thronging lances,
Sure he 'll think of the glances
  That love stole from me!

He is gone! he is gone!
  Like the leaf from the tree,
But his heart is of stone
  If it ne'er dream of me;
For I dream of him ever--
His buff-coat and beaver,
And long sword, oh! never
  Are absent from me!

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