Ballad
S
he ’s up and gone, the graceless Girl!
And robbed my failing years;
My blood before was thin and cold
But now ’t is turned to tears;—
My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand,
She might have stayed a little yet,
And led me by the hand!
Ay, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill,
’T is nothing but the heron’s cry,
And plover’s answer shrill;
My child is flown on wilder wings,
Than they have ever spread,
And I may even walk a waste
That widened when she fled.
Full many a thankless child has been,
But never one like mine;
Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine;
But now she ’ll share the robin’s food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father’s will!