she’s up and gone, the graceless girl,

and robb’d my failing years!

my blood before was thin and cold

but now ’tis turn’d to tears; —

my shadow falls upon my grave,

so near the brink i stand,

she might have stay’d a little yet,

and led me by the hand!

aye, call her on the barren moor,

and call her on the hill:

’tis 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 widen’d 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!