The swallow with summer
  Will wing o'er the seas,
The wind that I sigh to
  Will visit thy trees.
The ship that it hastens
  Thy ports will contain,
But me!--I must never
  See England again!

There's many that weep there,
  But one weeps alone,
For the tears that are falling
  So far from her own;
So far from thy own, love,
  We know not our pain;
If death is between us,
  Or only the main.

When the white cloud reclines
  On the verge of the sea,
I fancy the white cliffs,
  And dream upon thee;
But the cloud spreads its wings
  To the blue heav'n and flies.
We never shall meet, love,
  Except in the skies!