The Joyous Wanderer
And oh within my flowering heart
(Sing, soft nightingale!) is my Friend.
Now on the plain I have met with death—
Lira, la, la!
My bread is gone, my gold, my breath.
But oh this heart is not afraid—
Lira, la, la!
For oh, within this lonely heart
(Sing, sad nightingale!) is my Maid.
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