She's Up and Gone
Thomas Hood
1799 to 1845
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She's up and gone, the graceless girl,
And robb'd failing years!
My blood before was thin and cold
now 'tis turn'd to tears;—
My shadow falls my grave,
So near the brink I stand,
She have stay'd a little yet,
And led me by hand!
Aye, call her on the barren moor,
And her on the hill:
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plover's answer shrill;
My child is flown on wings
Than they have ever spread,
And I may walk a waste
That widen'd when she fled.
Full a thankless child has been,
But never one like mine;
Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her was rosy wine;
But now she'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will again
To meet her father's will!