“What have I done, unknown, amiss

To make my father wroth like this?

Declare it, O dear Queen, and win

His pardon for my heedless sin.

Why is the sire I ever find

Filled with all love to-day unkind?

With eyes cast down and pallid cheek

This day alone he will not speak.

Or lies he prostrate neath the blow

Of fierce disease or sudden woe?