Francisca walks in the shadow of night,
But it is not to gaze on the heavenly light --
But if she sits in her garden bower,
'Tis not for the sake of its blowing flower.
She listens -- but not for the nightingale,
Though her ear expects as soft a tale.
There winds a step through the foliage thick,
And her cheek grows pale -- and her heart beats quick.
There whispers a voice thro' the rustling leaves,
And her blush returns -- and her bosom heaves.
A moment more -- and they shall meet --
'Tis past -- her Lover's at her feet.