He came from his palace grand,
And he came to my cottage door.
His words, they were few,
they will linger forevermore.
With a look in his sad, eyes
More tender than words could be
But I was nothing to him,
Though he was the world to me.
And there in his garden strung,
all dressed in satins and lace,
Lady Mary so strange and cold,
who has in his heart no place.
For I would have been his bride,
with a kiss for a lifetime's fee.
But I was nothing to him,
though he was the world to me.
And now in his palace grand,
on a flower -strewn bed he lies,
With his beautiful lids tight closed
On his beautiful, sad, eyes
And among the mourners who mourn,
why should I a mourner be?
though he was the world to me
and how will it be with souls when
we meet in that spirit land
Will the spirit still understand