When merry hearts were gay, 
Careless of aught but play, 
Poor Flora slipt away
Sad'ning to Mora. 
Loose flowed her yellow hair, 
Quick heaved her bosom bare, 
As thus to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow. 

"Loud howls the stormy west,
"Cold, cold is winter's blast: -- 
"Haste then, O Donald, haste! 
"Haste to thy Flora!
"Twice twelve long months are o'er 
"Since on a foreign shore 
"You promised to fight no more,
"But meet me in Mora.

"Never, O wretched fair!" 
Sighed the sad messenger, 
"Never shall Donald mair
"Meet his loved Flora! 
"Cold as yon mountain snow, 
"Donald, thy love, lies low! 
"He sent me to soothe thy woe,
"Weeping in Mora.

Mute stood the trembling fair, 
Speechless with wild despair, 
Then, striking her bosom bare,
Sighed out, "Poor Flora! 
"Ah Donald! -- ah, well a day!" 
Was all the fond heart could say; 
At length the sound died away
Feebly in Mora.