I.

O H ! lady, think not that my heart has grown cold,
 If I woo not as once I could woo;
Though sorrow has bruised it, and long years have rolled,
 It still doats on beauty and you;
And were I to yield to its inmost desire
 I would labour by night and by day,
'Till I won you to flee from the home of your sire,
 To live with your love far away.

II.

But it is that my country's in bondage, and I
 Have sworn to shatter her chains!
By my duty and oath I must do it or lie
 A corse on her desolate plains:
Then, sure, dearest maiden, 'twere sinful to sue,
 And crueller far to win,
But, should victory smile on my banner, to you
 I shall fly without sorrow or sin.