I have a cottage by the hill;
It stands upon a meadow green;
Behind it flows a murmuring rill;
Cool-rooted moss and flowers between.
Beside the cottage stands a tree,
That flings its shadow o’er the eaves;
And scarce the sunshine visits me,
Save when a light wind rifts the leaves.
A nightingale sings on a spray
Through the sweet summer time night-long,
And evening travelers on their way,
Linger to hear her plaintive song.
Thou maiden with the yellow hair,
The winds of life are sharp and chill;
Wilt thou not seek a shelter there,
In yon lone cottage by the hill?