On that fair bank where Lubin died

On that fair bank where Lubin died, Fair Rosalie, a wretched maid, Sat weeping o'er the cruel tide, Faithful to her Lubin's shade.

Oh! may some kind some gentle wave Waft him to this mournful shore, These tender hands should make his grave, And deck his corpse with flowers o'er.

I'd ever watch his mould'ring clay, And pray for his eternal rest, When time his form has worn away, His dust to place within my breast.

While thus she mourn'd her Lubin lost, And Echo to her grief reply'd; Lo! at her feet his corpse was tost, She shriek'd! she clasp'd him! sigh'd and died.