Not now the gifts ye once so fondly gave,
Not now the verse and rural wreath I crave;
Not now to lead your festive sports along,
Queen of the dance, and despot of the song;
One shed is all, oh, just one wretched shed,
To lay my weary limbs and aching head.
Then will I bless your bounty, then inure
My frame to toil, and earn a pittance poor.
Then, while ye mix in mirth, will I, forlorn,
Beside my murder'd parent sit and mourn.'