O’er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone
mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter
incessantly rave,
What woes wing my heart while intently
surveying
The storm’s gloomy path
on the breast of the wave.

Ye foam-crested billows,
allow me to wail,
Ere ye toss me afar
from my lov’d native shore;
Where the flower which bloom’d sweetest
in Colia’s green vale,
The pride of my bosom,
my Mary’s no more.

No more by the banks
of the streamlet we’ll wander,
And smile at the moon’s
rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling
with fondness around her,
For the dew-drops of morning
fall cold on her grave.

No more shall the soft
thrill of love warm my breast,
I haste with the storm
to a far distant shore;
Where unknown, unlamented,
my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit
my bosom no more.