7
Which was doom'd to love but one;
He sigh'd—he vow'd—and I believ'd him,
He was false—and I undone.
From that hour has reason never
Held her empire o'er my brain;
Henry fled-With him for ever
Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.
Now forlorn and broken-hearted,
And with frenzied thoughts beset,
On that spot where last we parted,
On that spot where first we met,
Still I sing my love-lorn ditty;
Still I slowly pace the plain;
While each passer-by, in pity,
Cries, God help thee, Crazy Jane.
THE LAD THAT I LOVE.
How sweet are the flowers that grow by yon fountain,
And sweet are the cowslips that spangle the grove,
And sweet is the breeze that blows over yon mountain;
Yet none is so sweet as the lad that I love.
Then I'll weave him a garland,
A fresh flowing garland,
With lillies, and roses,
And sweet blooming posies;
A garland I'll give to the lad that I love.
