In a little light-lid Cottage,
lives a laughing lad,
He plays his lute near the lake,
in a melody just so sad.
He likes to lie in lethargic state,
loving to be out O'so late,
to play his lute next to the lake,
and lonely waiting with tunes he make.
Seven to seventy years from now,
still be staying on the same sitting-tree,
his soul sings the same sad sound,
O', when shall his sorrow be set free?

Because...

Though his smile shine open the sky,
surely his silent, tearful eye,
spells the secret, sheerest lie...
and that he'll linger for after he die.