"Now, my own, own love," [she whispered]1, "you are mine, 
and only mine; for she has forgot 'ee at last, 
although for her you died.
But I -- whenever I get up I'll think of 'ee, 
[and]1 whenever I lie down I'll think of 'ee. 
Whenever I plant the young larches I'll think 
that none can plant as you planted; 
and whenever I split a gad, 
and whenever I turn the cider-wring, 
I'll say none could do it like you. 
If ever I forget your name, let me forget home and heaven!...
But no, no, my love, I never can forget 'ee; 
for you was a good man, and did good things!"