FAIR ANNIE.
OH! she is not dead fair Annie,
Though long her sleep shall be;
She is alone where the violets blow
Under the green-wood tree!
Though long her sleep shall be;
She is alone where the violets blow
Under the green-wood tree!
And I am "sare wearie," fair Annie,
For lack of thy gentle face;
The world is a desert, dear Annie,
Without thy form of grace!
For lack of thy gentle face;
The world is a desert, dear Annie,
Without thy form of grace!
And how sadly I shall miss thee,
When the hawthorn bloom is white;
For now thou art fled, dear Annie,
To brighter realms of light!
When the hawthorn bloom is white;
For now thou art fled, dear Annie,
To brighter realms of light!
And oft is my sad fancy weaving
O'er memories of the past:
Yet will I strive to greet thee, Annie,
In a future home at last!
O'er memories of the past:
Yet will I strive to greet thee, Annie,
In a future home at last!
