Originally Posted by
vagantes
The river-god is icy cold today.
A girl with a ripe and smiling lip,
And a face like a carved angel;
"O whistle and I'll come to you my lad".
The willow tree drooped like a thing that grieves,
Upon the water the cold strikes chill,
She stood silent and still,
O whistle and I'll come to you my lad.
And turned and looking back
Saw the westering sun plunge deep
Behind the grove of oaks;
Tho' father and mither and a' should go mad.
Her soul goes out upon the dying day,
Her footsteps left on the frozen grass;
It's dark beneath the black of water
O whistle and I'll come to you my lad.