Marguerite.

Marguerite.
560.6

Marguerite! Marguerite! my star of hope.
I dread the day you’ll forget me, Marguerite!
And still I know it soon will come,
The festive dance, the rich, the gay,
So different from our home, Marguerite!
I would not chide thee,
Chide thee, Marguerite!
Nor mar one joy of thine so sweet;
But, oh, I dread that weary day
You’ll me forget, Marguerite!
But, on. I dread that weary day
You’ll me forget, Marguerite!

I wandered down by the little babbling brook;
Its every ripple speaks of thee:
The roses, too, they droop their heads
In sympathy with me, Marguerite!
If this bright world it were all of mine to give
I’d proudly lay it at thy feet:
But, oh, the thought you’ll not be mine
Will break my heart, Margueritel
But, oh, the thought you’ll not be mine
Will break my heart, Marguerite!