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She loves her fire, her Cottage-home;Yet o'er the moorland will she roamIn weather rough and bleak;And when against the wind she strains,Oh! might I kiss the mountain rainsThat sparkle on her cheek.
Take all that's mine "beneath the moon,"If I with her but half a noonMay sit beneath the wallsOf some old cave, or mossy nook,When up she winds along the brook,To hunt the waterfalls.
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