She's up and gone, the graceless girl!
And robbed my failing years;
My blood before was thin and cold,
But now 'tis turned to tears; --
My shadow falls upon my grave;
So near the brink I stand,
She might have staid a little yet,
And led me by the hand!

Ay, 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 widened 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!