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Begone, Begone Thou Truant Tear.
Begone, begone thou truant tear
That trembles on my cheek,
And far away be born the sigh
That more than words can speak.
And cease, my merry harp, to wake
The song of former days,
And perish all the minstrel lyre
That framed these happy lays.
She loves me not who woke these strains,
Then, wherefore should they be?
True, she doth smile as she was wont,
But doth she smile on me?
Her neck with kindly arch ne'er bends
When listing to my song,
Nor does her passion-moving lips
The trembling notes prolong.
