Jilted
Oh! golden is the gorse-bush.
Beneath an April sky,
The lark is full of singing,
The clouds are white and high ;
But my love, my love is faithless.
And she cares no more for I!
Then what’s the good of living.
With the bright sun overhead.
When the earth is always ready
And will give a kinder bed,
Where no vows be made or broken.
And no bitter words are said!
