To shudder at the sound of bolt,
Grow cold at clank of chain?
Oh! tell me, is it weakness now
To weep upon your breast,—
That faithful pillow, where so oft
You’ve soothed me to my rest!
Hark! ’tis an officer’s firm tread,
O God! Mother, good-bye!
They’ve come to bear me to my cell
Where I must stay and die.