The Sparrow that she used to prize
As dearly as her own bright eyes.
As knows a girl her mother well,
So knew the pretty bird my belle,
And ever hopping, chirping round,
Far from her lap was never found.
Now wings it to that gloomy bourne
From which no travellers return.
Accurs’d be thou, infernal lair!
Devourer dark of all things fair,