And, leaving the abyss,
Fall foaming through the wheel,—
Though people often tell
Of millers' wives so fair,
Yet none can e'er excel
Our dearest daughter there!
Yet where the thick-set green
Stands round yon church and sod,
Where the old fir-tree's seen
Alone tow'rd heaven to nod,—
'Tis there the ashes lie
Of our untimely dead;
From earth our gaze on high
By their blest memory's led.
See how yon hill is bright
With billowy-waving arms!
The force returns, whose might
Has vanquished war's alarms.
Who proudly hastens here
With wreath-encircled brow?
'Tis like our child so dear!—
Thus Charles comes homeward now.
That dearest honoured guest
Is welcomed by the bride;
She makes the true one blest,
At the glad festal tide.
And every one makes haste
To join the dance with glee;
While thou with wreaths hast graced
The youngest children three.
To sound of flute and horn
