I sit down in mine English land,
⁠Mine English hearth beside;
And thou, to one I never knew,
⁠Art plighted for a bride.

It will not wrong thy present joy,
⁠With by-gone days to wend;
Nor wrongeth it mine English hearth,
⁠To love my Gallic friend.

Bind, bind the wreath! the slender ring
⁠Thy wedded finger press!
May he who calls thy love his own,
⁠Call so thine happiness!

Be he Terpander to thine heart,
⁠And string fresh strings of gold,
Which may out-give new melodies,
⁠But never mar the old!