When westward I'm called,
'Tis not east I'll be going.
Should I sup the salt wave
With the pure spring to hand,
Or prefer the base weed
To the richest rose blowing,
Or not follow my own love
The first through the land.

Oh, my heart is a fountain
Of sorrow unspoken,
A virgin nut-cluster
Untimely down torn!
And oh, but my heart
Flutters bleeding and broken,
Like a bird beating out
Its wild life on a thorn.

His cheek is the hue
Of the blackberry blossom,
And blackberry blue
His dark tresses above;
And I'm cryin' without
Who should lie in his bosom
And I doubt and I doubt
If he's true to his love.

'Tis time I should part you,
Proud, hurrying City;
For your tongues they cut sharper
By far than your stone,
And your hearts than that same
Are more hardened to pity;
So my love I'll go seeking,
Alone, all alone!