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WHEN NAPOLEON was flying
From the field of Waterloo,
A British soldier dying,
To his brother bade adieu !
“And take,” he said, “this token
To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken
In affection's latest breath."
Sore mourn’d the brother's heart,
When the youth beside him fell ; But the trumpet warn’d to part, And they took a sad farewell.
There was many a friend to lose him,
For that gallant soldier sigh’d; But the maiden of his bosom
Wept when all their tears were dried.
Oh how hard it is to find
And if that one should be
And sing Woe's me-Woe's me!
Love 's a boundless burning waste,
And still more seldom flee - Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings; Yet somehow Love a something brings
That 's sweet-ev'n when we sigh Woe's me!
Earl March look’d'on his dying child,"
And smit with grief to view her ! The youth, he cried, whom I exiled,
Shall be restored to woo her.
She 's at the window many an hour
His coming to discover ; And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower,
And she look'd on her lover
But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
Though her smile on him was dwelling. And am I then forgot--forgot ?
It broke the heart of Ellen.