“ How can you bid this heart be blythe,
When blythe this heart can never be ?
I’ve lost the jewel from my crown—
Look round our circle, and you’ll see
That there is ane out o’ the ring
Who never can forgotten be—
Ay, there’s a blank at my right hand,
That ne’er can be made up to me !
’Tis said as water wears the rock,
That time wears out the deepest line ;
It may be true wi’ hearts enow,
But never can apply to mine.
For I have learn’d to know and feel—
Though losses should forgotten be—
That still the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up to me !
I blame not Providence’s sway,
For I have many joys beside,
And fain would I in grateful way
Enjoy the same, whate’er betide.
A mortal thing should ne’er repine,
But stoop to the supreme decree !
Yet, oh ! the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up to me !”