Gently, Sorrowfully Sang The Maid Sowing The Ploughed Field Over, And Her Song Was Only: 'Come, O My Lover!' Strangely, Strangely Shone The Light, Stilly Wound The River: 'Thy Love Is A Dead Man, He'll Come Back Never.' Sadly, Sadly Passed The Maid The Fading Dark Hills Over; Still Her Song Far, Far Away Said: 'Come, O My Lover!'