Ballad (Hood; "She's up and gone, the graceless girl")

by Thomas Hood

For works with similar titles, see Ballad.

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!