Through 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 though opprest by my fate,
I burn with contempt for my foes,
Though fortune has altered 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 will still sorrow for me.
Ye roofs where cold damps and dismay,
with silence and fortitude dwell,
how comfortable passes the day?
how sadly tolls the evening bell?
The owls from the battlement cry;
hollow winds seem to murmur around,
O MARY ! prepare for to die
my blood it runs cold at the sound.
THE CONTENTED LOVER.
lo’e na a laddie but ane