Gently, sorrowfully sang the maid
   Sowing the ploughed field over,
And her song was only:
   "Come, O my lover!"

Strangely, strangely shone the light,
   Stilly wound the river:
"Thy love is a dead man,
   He'll come back never."

Sadly, sadly passed the maid
   The fading dark hills over;
Still her song far, far away said:
   "Come, O my lover!"