Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/261

 And long is the day Ere home he can be; But where'er his steed prances, Amid thronging lances, Sure he'll think of the glances That love stole from me!

He is gone! he is gone! Like the leaf from the tree; But his heart is of stone If it ne'er dream of me! For I dream of him ever: His buff-coat and beaver, And long-sword, O, never Are absent from me!