This, then, is the grave of my son,
        Whose heart she won! And nettles grow
Upon his mound; and she lives just below.

        How he upbraided me, and left,
        And our lives were cleft, because I said
She was hard, unfeeling, caring but to wed.

        Well, to see this sight I have fared these miles,
        And her firelight smiles from her window there,
Whom he left his mother to cherish with tender care!

        It is enough. I'll turn and go;
        Yes, nettles grow where lone lies he,
Who spurned me for seeing what he could not see.