Denmark, farewell; for thee no sighs depart,
But love maternal rends my bleeding heart.
Oh! Cronsberg's tower, where my poor infant lies,
Why, why, so soon recede you from my eyes?
Yet, stay—ah! me, nor hope nor prayer prevails—
For ever exiled hence, Matilda sails.
Keith! formed to smooth the path affection treads,
And dry the tears that friendless sorrow sheds,
Oh! generous Keith, protect their helpless state,
And save my infants from impending fate!