Page:Fair widow, are ye wauking.pdf/6

6 when me merry heart we're gay, Careless of ought but play, Poor Flora slipt away, Sadd’ning to Mora. Loose flow’d her coal 'black haif. Quick heav’d her bosom bare, And thus to the troubled air, She vented her sorrow:—

Loud howls the northern blast, Bleak is the dreary waste: - Haste, then, O Donnel haste, Haste to thy Flora. Twice twelve long months are o’er, Since in a foreign shore, you promised to fight no more, But meet me in Mora

Where now is now is Donnel dear ? Maids cry with taunting sneer, Say, is he still sincere To his lov’d Flora. Parents upbraid my moan ; Each heart is turn’d to stone- Ah Flora! thou’rt now alone, Friendless in Mora.