Margaret

Were we but only past the hill! There sits my mother upon a stone-- My brain, alas, is cold with dread!-- There sits my mother upon a stone, And to and fro she shakes her head; She winks not, she nods not, her head it droops sore; She slept so long, she waked no more; She slept, that we might taste of bliss: Ah! those were happy times, I wis!