“Oh! Green and gay the beeches be
Which grow beside the Maine;
And sweet the bloom of hawthorn tree
When May is on the wane.

The blue that lights the laughin eyes
Of speedwell through the Dreen
Might well provoke the longing sighs
Of Beauty’s peerless Queen.

And never yet was music made
From harp or reed or lute,
Might match the merry strathspeys played
Where Low Park shallows shoot.

But what to me is bloom, or tree
The floweret’s cobalt gleam
Or yet the merriest symphony
Beat out by gladsome stream!

They weary me! They dreary be!
They fill my heart with pain!
My love is dead! God pity me!
She sleeps beside the Maine.