Two Songs
He trifles with his musket,
That shines in the sunlight red;
He presents it and he shoulders,—
I wish he would shoot me dead!
That shines in the sunlight red;
He presents it and he shoulders,—
I wish he would shoot me dead!
II.
They have, indeed, tormented
And maddened me with fate;
Some with their love have done it,
And others with their hate.
And maddened me with fate;
Some with their love have done it,
And others with their hate.
With wine they've mingled poison,
And with the bread I ate;
Some with their love have done it,
And others with their hate.
And with the bread I ate;
Some with their love have done it,
And others with their hate.
But she, who more than any
Can torture, wound, and move,
Is she that does not hate me,
And yet that does not love.
Can torture, wound, and move,
Is she that does not hate me,
And yet that does not love.
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