Ballad (Hood)

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!