My poor heart flutters like the sea
Now heaving on the sandy shore;
It seems to tell me you shall be
Never again near Yarrimore.
Far, far beyond the waves, I bend
Mine eyes, if I can land explore;
But o’er the waves I find no end,—
Yet there they say’s my Yarrimore.
The hut he built is standing still,
Deck’d with the shells he cull’d from shore;
Our bow’r is waving on the hill,
But where, alas! is Yarrimore?
Within that bow’r I’ll sit and sigh,
From dawn of day till day is o’er;
And, as the wild winds o’er me fly,
I’ll call on gentle Yarrimore!