A
SONG
.
[
Far
from
the
woods
,
alas
,
I
rove
]
Far
from
the
woods
,
alas
,
I
rove
,
Far
from
the
swain
I
dearly
love
:
Sure
some
ill
star
did
rule
the
day
,
When
first
my
heedless
feet
did
stray
,
From
my
dear
swain
so
far
away
.
'Tis
now
the
morning
of
the
spring
,
And
larks
and
linnets
sweetly
sing
;
I
might
have
sung
as
well
as
they
,
If
I
had
never
learnt
to
stray
,
From
my
dear
swain
so
far
away
.
Oh
!
that
I
had
ne'er
left
the
plain
,
Oh
!
that
I
could
return
again
;
But
here
I
mourn
my
object
state
,
Like
a
poor
dove
that's
lost
her
mate
,
And
sigh
,
alas
!
but
sigh
too
late
.