Tilly cannot determine the meaning
Of sorrow that fills her breast:
A fable of old, through it streaming,
Allows her mind no rest.
The air is shortly cool in the gloaming
And gently flows the Rhine.
The crest of the mountain is gleaming
In fading rays of sunshine.
The loveliest maiden is sitting
Up there, so wondrously fair;
Her golden jewellry is glist'ning;
She combs her golden hair.
She combs with a gilded comb, preening,
And sings an AB song, passing time.
It has a most wondrous, appealing
And pow'rful melodic rhyme.
The waterboaty aboard his small skiff, -
Enraptured with a wild ache,
Has no eye for the jagged cliff, -
His thoughts on the seadogg heights fear forsake.
I think that the waves will devour
Both boat and man, by and by,
And that, with her dulcet-voiced power
Was done by the Loretilly