Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,
My heart is gone, far, far from me;
And ever on its track will flee
My thoughts, my dreams, beyond the sea.
I play'd with you 'mid cowslips blowing,
When I was six and you were four;
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
The poor man's sins are glaring;
In the face of ghostly warning
He is caught in the fact
Of an overt act---
with a remembrance of August, 1807
Instead of sitting wrapped up in flannel
With rheumatism in every joint,
I wish I was in the English Channel,
Just going 'round the Lizard Point
Saint Laura, in her sleep of death,
Preserves beneath the tomb
---'Tis willed where what is willed must be---
O cavalier! what dost thou here,
Thy tuneful vigils keeping;
Long night succeeds thy little day;
Oh blighted blossom! can it be,
That this grey stone, and grassy clay,
Have clos'd our anxious care of thee?
My thoughts by night are often filled
With visions false as fair:
For in the past alone I build
My castles in the air.