DON’T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,— Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown? In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, And Alice lies under the stone.
There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new; But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth, There never was change in you. Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends—yet I hail Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale.