She wander'd down the mountain side
With measur'd tread and slow;
She heard the bells at eventide
Down in the vale below.
A bird was singing its psalm of rest,
But she heeded not his song;
For other thoughts fill'd full her heart,
And she sang as she went along:
"I shall meet him, where we always met,
He is waiting, waiting for me;
My heart is full, I hear it beat;
I am coming, my love, to thee!"

Poor child! he's gone to his last rest,
Alas! he perish'd in a foreign land.
He nobly died with face to foe,
Slain by a ruthless hand.
Ah me! she knows not, what they mean,
For she heeds not, what they say.
And still at eventide again she's seen,
And she sings as she wends her way:
"I shall meet him, where we always met,
He is waiting, waiting for me;
My heart is full, I hear it beat;
I am coming, my love, to thee!"