“Twas when the seas was roaring
With hollow blasts of wind,
A damsel lay deploring,
All on a rock reclined.
Wide o’er the foaming billows,
She cast a wistful look:
Her head was crowned with willows
That trembled o’er the brook.
Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days;
Why didst thou, venturous lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,
And let my lover rest:
Ah! What‘s thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?
The merchant robbed of pleasure,
Sees tempests in despair;
But what‘s the loss of treasure,
To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on,
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You’d find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you so.
How can they say that nature
Has nothing made in vain;
Why then beneath the water
Should hideous rocks remain?
No eyes the rocks discover
That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wandering lover,
And leave the maid to weep.
All melancholy lying,
Thus wailed she for her dear;
Repaid each blast with sighing,
Each billow with a tear.
When o’er the white wave stooping
His floating corpse she spied,
Then like a lily drooping,
She bowed her head and died.
