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

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!