The Broken Ring

To the willows of the brookside The mill wheel sings to-day-- Sings and weeps, As the brooklet creeps Wondering on its way; And here is the ring _she_ gave me With love's sweet promise then-- It hath burst apart Like the trusting heart That may never be soothed again! Oh, I would be a minstrel To wander far and wide, Weaving in song the merciless wrong Done by a perjured bride! Or I would be a soldier, To seek in the bloody fray What gifts of fate can compensate For the pangs I suffer to-day! Yet may this aching bosom, By bitter sorrow crushed, Be still and cold In the churchyard mould Ere _thy_ sweet voice be hushed; So sing, sing on forever, O wheel of the brookside mill, For you mind me again Of the old time when I felt love's gracious thrill.