Fair Annie

OH! she is not dead fair Annie,Though long her sleep shall be;She is alone where the violets blowUnder the green-wood tree!

And I am "sare wearie," fair Annie,For lack of thy gentle face;The world is a desert, dear Annie,Without thy form of grace!

And how sadly I shall miss thee,When the hawthorn bloom is white;For now thou art fled, dear Annie,To brighter realms of light!

And oft is my sad fancy weavingO'er memories of the past:Yet will I strive to greet thee, Annie,In a future home at last!