Margaretta.

When I was in my teens, I loved dear Margaretta: I know not what it means, I can not now forget her! That vision of the past My head is ever crazing; Yet, when I saw her last, I could not speak for gazing! Oh, lingering bud of May! Dear as when first I met her; Worn in my heart always, Life-cherished Margaretta! We parted near the stile, As morn was faintly breaking: For many a weary mile Oh how my heart was aching! But distance, time, and change, Have lost me Margaretta; And yet 'tis sadly strange That I can not forget her! O queen of rural maids-- My dark-eyed Magaretta-- The heart the mind upbraids That struggles to forget her! My love, I know, will seem A wayward, boyish folly; But, ah! it was a dream Most sweet--most melancholy. Were mine the world's domain, To me 'twere fortune better To be a boy again, And dream of Margaretta. Oh! memory of the past, Why linger to regret her? My first love was my last! And that is Margaretta!