I sigh and lament me in vain,
These walls can but echo my moan;
Alas! it encreases my pain,
When I think of the days that are gone.
Through 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' opprest 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.
False woman! in ages to come,
Thy malice detested shall be;
And, when we are cold in the tomb,
Some heart still will sorrow for me.
 
Ye roofs! where cold damps and dismay,
With silence and solitude dwell,
How comfortless passes the day,
How sad tolls the evening bell!
The owls from the battlements cry,
Hollow winds seem to murmur around,
"O Mary, prepare thee to die:" --
My blood it runs chill at the sound.