My mother bids me bind my hair
—With bands of rosy hue;
Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
—And lace my bodice blue!

“For why,” she cries, “sit still and weep,
—While others dance and play?”
Alas! I scarce can go, or creep,
—While Lubin is away!

'Tis sad to think the days are gone
—When those we love were near!
I sit upon this mossy stone,
—And sigh when none can hear:

And while I spin my flaxen thread,
—And sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep, or dead,
—Now Lubin is away!