Q U E E N MARY

I sigh and lament me in vain , Thèse walls can but écho my moan :

Alas ! it increases my pain When I frhink of the days that are gone. Thro' the grate of my prison I see The birds as they wanton in air :

My heart how it pants to be free , My looks they are wild with despair.

Above tho' oppressed by my fate , I burn with contempt for my foes :

Tho' fortune has alter'd my state , She ne' er can subdue me to those.

F aise woman, in âges to corne Thy malice detested shall be ; And when we are cold in the tomb , Sorae heart still will sorrow for me,