MARIE.
Little Marie is lonesome,Little Marie is sad,Tho’ the summer sun is shiningAnd the summer days are glad.Ever she stops to listenAs her weary task she plies,Anon at the open windowLingers with dreamy eyes.Not at the distant woodlands,Veiled in a golden haze,Or the miles between of meadowAnd wheat and rippling maze,Dotted with elms and maplesThat move in the morning breeze,And now and then a farm-houseShaded by apple trees,The shallow, winding streamlet,Where cattle lazily wade,Here in the sunlight flashing,Trembling there in the shade—Not at the quiet landscapeGazes she; far and dimShe sees the white clouds fleecyThat crown the horizon’s rim.They are the snow-clad mountainsShe saw from the chalet low,Where she dwelt in the dear old Rhineland—Ah! it seems so long ago.Not to the streamlet’s murmurListens she; far awayGurgles a mountain torrentOver the rocks all day—Gurgles and laughs and plashes,Turning the mill-wheel ’round;Gurgles and laughs so merry—Hush! she can hear the sound.She and the village childrenClamber along its route;Ernest is always leading—Hark! she can hear him shout:“Marie! I’ll help thee, Marie!”She reaches her hand to him—Sudden the wide eyes vacantFountains of tear-drops brim.Suddenly far and mockingSounds the voice of the brook.She turns away from her mountains;Ah, no, no! she must not look.“Courage, my little Marie!”Was it an echo, then?When he went off to the battles—He never came back again—Thus did he say, her lover,Stroking her golden hair:“Courage, my little Marie!”Hist! a step on the stair.Idling and dreaming, Marie!Quick to her work she flies;What if the madame find herStaring with wistful eyes?All in the land of strangersPity is sweet and rare.Dreary the life before her,Never a soul to care.So, tho’ the sun be shining,So, tho’ the day be glad,Sometimes she loses courage,Sometimes Marie is sad.
Little Marie is lonesome,Little Marie is sad,Tho’ the summer sun is shiningAnd the summer days are glad.Ever she stops to listenAs her weary task she plies,Anon at the open windowLingers with dreamy eyes.Not at the distant woodlands,Veiled in a golden haze,Or the miles between of meadowAnd wheat and rippling maze,Dotted with elms and maplesThat move in the morning breeze,And now and then a farm-houseShaded by apple trees,The shallow, winding streamlet,Where cattle lazily wade,Here in the sunlight flashing,Trembling there in the shade—Not at the quiet landscapeGazes she; far and dimShe sees the white clouds fleecyThat crown the horizon’s rim.They are the snow-clad mountainsShe saw from the chalet low,Where she dwelt in the dear old Rhineland—Ah! it seems so long ago.Not to the streamlet’s murmurListens she; far awayGurgles a mountain torrentOver the rocks all day—Gurgles and laughs and plashes,Turning the mill-wheel ’round;Gurgles and laughs so merry—Hush! she can hear the sound.She and the village childrenClamber along its route;Ernest is always leading—Hark! she can hear him shout:“Marie! I’ll help thee, Marie!”She reaches her hand to him—Sudden the wide eyes vacantFountains of tear-drops brim.Suddenly far and mockingSounds the voice of the brook.She turns away from her mountains;Ah, no, no! she must not look.“Courage, my little Marie!”Was it an echo, then?When he went off to the battles—He never came back again—Thus did he say, her lover,Stroking her golden hair:“Courage, my little Marie!”Hist! a step on the stair.Idling and dreaming, Marie!Quick to her work she flies;What if the madame find herStaring with wistful eyes?All in the land of strangersPity is sweet and rare.Dreary the life before her,Never a soul to care.So, tho’ the sun be shining,So, tho’ the day be glad,Sometimes she loses courage,Sometimes Marie is sad.
Little Marie is lonesome,Little Marie is sad,Tho’ the summer sun is shiningAnd the summer days are glad.
Little Marie is lonesome,
Little Marie is sad,
Tho’ the summer sun is shining
And the summer days are glad.
Ever she stops to listenAs her weary task she plies,Anon at the open windowLingers with dreamy eyes.
Ever she stops to listen
As her weary task she plies,
Anon at the open window
Lingers with dreamy eyes.
Not at the distant woodlands,Veiled in a golden haze,Or the miles between of meadowAnd wheat and rippling maze,
Not at the distant woodlands,
Veiled in a golden haze,
Or the miles between of meadow
And wheat and rippling maze,
Dotted with elms and maplesThat move in the morning breeze,And now and then a farm-houseShaded by apple trees,
Dotted with elms and maples
That move in the morning breeze,
And now and then a farm-house
Shaded by apple trees,
The shallow, winding streamlet,Where cattle lazily wade,Here in the sunlight flashing,Trembling there in the shade—
The shallow, winding streamlet,
Where cattle lazily wade,
Here in the sunlight flashing,
Trembling there in the shade—
Not at the quiet landscapeGazes she; far and dimShe sees the white clouds fleecyThat crown the horizon’s rim.
Not at the quiet landscape
Gazes she; far and dim
She sees the white clouds fleecy
That crown the horizon’s rim.
They are the snow-clad mountainsShe saw from the chalet low,Where she dwelt in the dear old Rhineland—Ah! it seems so long ago.
They are the snow-clad mountains
She saw from the chalet low,
Where she dwelt in the dear old Rhineland—
Ah! it seems so long ago.
Not to the streamlet’s murmurListens she; far awayGurgles a mountain torrentOver the rocks all day—
Not to the streamlet’s murmur
Listens she; far away
Gurgles a mountain torrent
Over the rocks all day—
Gurgles and laughs and plashes,Turning the mill-wheel ’round;Gurgles and laughs so merry—Hush! she can hear the sound.
Gurgles and laughs and plashes,
Turning the mill-wheel ’round;
Gurgles and laughs so merry—
Hush! she can hear the sound.
She and the village childrenClamber along its route;Ernest is always leading—Hark! she can hear him shout:
She and the village children
Clamber along its route;
Ernest is always leading—
Hark! she can hear him shout:
“Marie! I’ll help thee, Marie!”She reaches her hand to him—Sudden the wide eyes vacantFountains of tear-drops brim.
“Marie! I’ll help thee, Marie!”
She reaches her hand to him—
Sudden the wide eyes vacant
Fountains of tear-drops brim.
Suddenly far and mockingSounds the voice of the brook.She turns away from her mountains;Ah, no, no! she must not look.
Suddenly far and mocking
Sounds the voice of the brook.
She turns away from her mountains;
Ah, no, no! she must not look.
“Courage, my little Marie!”Was it an echo, then?When he went off to the battles—He never came back again—
“Courage, my little Marie!”
Was it an echo, then?
When he went off to the battles—
He never came back again—
Thus did he say, her lover,Stroking her golden hair:“Courage, my little Marie!”Hist! a step on the stair.
Thus did he say, her lover,
Stroking her golden hair:
“Courage, my little Marie!”
Hist! a step on the stair.
Idling and dreaming, Marie!Quick to her work she flies;What if the madame find herStaring with wistful eyes?
Idling and dreaming, Marie!
Quick to her work she flies;
What if the madame find her
Staring with wistful eyes?
All in the land of strangersPity is sweet and rare.Dreary the life before her,Never a soul to care.
All in the land of strangers
Pity is sweet and rare.
Dreary the life before her,
Never a soul to care.
So, tho’ the sun be shining,So, tho’ the day be glad,Sometimes she loses courage,Sometimes Marie is sad.
So, tho’ the sun be shining,
So, tho’ the day be glad,
Sometimes she loses courage,
Sometimes Marie is sad.