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MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS
LAMENT.
I ſigh and lament me in vain,
these walls do bet echo my moan;
Alas! it increases my pain,
when I think on the days that are gone!
Thro' the grate 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!
Above the oppreſt by my fate,
I burn with contempt for my foes;
Tho' fortune has alter'd my ſtate,
ſhe ne'er can subdue me to those.
False woman, in ages to come,
thy malice deteſted ſhall be;
And when we are cold in the tomb,
some heart ſtill ſhall sorrow for me.
Ye roofs, where cold damps and dismay,
with ſilence and solitude dwell,
How comfortless passes the day—
how sad tolls the evening bell!
