No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows’ foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier.
Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad to part,
When first in Roslin’s lovely glen
You triumphed o’er my heart?
Your locks they glittered to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;