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 Which was doom'd to love but one;

He sigh'd—he vow'd—and I believ'd him,

He was false—and I undone.

From that hour has reason never

Held her empire o'er my brain;

Henry fled-With him for ever

Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.

Now forlorn and broken-hearted,

And with frenzied thoughts beset,

On that spot where last we parted,

On that spot where first we met,

Still I sing my love-lorn ditty;

Still I slowly pace the plain;

While each passer-by, in pity,

Cries, God help thee, Crazy Jane.

How sweet are the flowers that grow by yon fountain,

And sweet are the cowslips that spangle the grove,

And sweet is the breeze that blows over yon mountain;

Yet none is so sweet as the lad that I love.

Then I'll weave him a garland,

A fresh flowing garland,

With lillies, and roses,

And sweet blooming posies;

A garland I'll give to the lad that I love.