ADAPTED TO A VERY ANCIENT SCOTTISH AIR,
SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN HER OWN COMPOSITION.
I Sigh, and lament me in vain,
These walls can but echo my moan;
Alas! it increases my pain,
To think of the days that are gone.
Through the grates of my prison I see
The birds as they wanton in air;
My heart, how it pants to be free,
My looks they are wild with despair.
Ye roofs, where cold damps and dismay
With silence and solitude dwell;
How comfortless passes the day,
How sad tolls the evening bell!
The owls from the battlements cry,
Hollow winds seem to murmur around,
‘ O Mary, prepare thee to die!’
My blood it runs cold at the sound.
Unchang’d by the rigors of fate,
I burn with contempt for my foes,
Though fortune has clouded my state,
This hope shall enlighten its close.
False woman! in ages to come
Thy malice detested shall be;
And when we are cold in the tomb,
The heart still shall sorrow for me.
(Anne Hunter)
More Poetry from Anne Hunter:
Anne Hunter Poems based on Topics: Hope, Fate & Destiny, Pain, Cry, Birds, Woman- Carisbrook Castle (Anne Hunter Poems)
- The Song At Maria's Grave (Anne Hunter Poems)
- November, 1784. (Anne Hunter Poems)
- A Ballad Of The Eighteenth Century (Anne Hunter Poems)
- La Douce Chimere (Anne Hunter Poems)
- Laura To Petrarch (Anne Hunter Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: Cry Poems, Hope Poems, Pain Poems, Birds Poems, Fate & Destiny Poems, Woman PoemsBased on Keywords: unchang, adapted, increases, damps, grates, rigors