YOUR LOT IS FAR ABOVE ME.
I
Your lot is far above me,
I dare not be your bride;
To know that you have lov'd me
Will wound your father's pride.
Go, woo some high-born lady,
And he will bless your choice.
Alas! too long already,
I've listen'd to your voice.
II
Oh! may your grief be fleeting!
Go seek the halls of mirth,
Dread not a future meeting,
We ne'er shall meet on earth.
Though o'er love's passing vision
These tears of anguish flow,
Doubt not the stern decision
Of her who bids you go.
III
These tears are not intended
As lures to make you stay:
I wish they were not blended
With all you hear me say.
Go! would you ne'er had sought me
'Tis hard so young to die;
But 'twas your kindness taught me
To raise my hopes so high.
