Энн Хантер (Anne Hunter)

The Lamentation of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots

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.

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