Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear

It filled her faint blue eye,

As oft she heard, in fancy's ear,

Her Bertrand's dying sigh.

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth
Of all our good king's men,
And he was gone to the Holy Land
To fight the Saracen.

And many a month had passed away,
And many a rolling year,
But nothing the maid from Palestine
Could of her lover hear.

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce
The ocean's misty face;
Full oft she thought her lover's bark
She on the wave could trace.

And every night she placed a light
In the high rock's lonely tower,

To guide her lover to the land,

Should the murky tempest lower.

But now despair had seized her breast,
And sunken in her eye:
"Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live,
And I in peace will die."

She wandered o'er the lonely shore,
The curlew screamed above,

She heard the scream with a sickening heart,
Much boding of her love.