In the glen below the mountain where the water runs so clear, he met a miller’s daughter in the springtime of the year. They walked beside the water, talked of the house they’d build when his wandering was done. But summer turned to autumn, his trade called him away, and he kissed her by the waterfall.
Years have passed like water. The roads have all conspired. Perhaps she waits no longer, perhaps she found another’s hand.
“Fair Rosie of the Glen, I hope you found your way. Wherever I may find myself, my heart remembers you.”
Someone in the crowd: “Aye, that’s a good one…”