Hark!  Down the road he rides not far away, 

His horse’s feet compose for me: rumble! 

Here I lie awaiting his call all day; 

Oh, how he makes a heart feel so humble! 

Yet impatient am I, slouched on the sill, 

How I gaze off so far into the dark, 

He must come, for it is my dying will; 

If I must I’ll wait ’til the call of lark. 

As I cling the air I am filled with fright, 

Oh, how I tremble with bursting terror! 

He brings a message from the dark of night; 

How can I write?  I’m betrothed in error! 

  But as long as it’s sent, I’ll see his face, 

  So I shall still write to the lord: “Your Grace.”