THE
LAMENTATION
OF
MARY
STUART
,
QUEEN
OF
SCOTS
,
ADAPTED
TO
A
VERY
ANCIENT
SCOTTISH
AIR
,
SUPPOSED
TO
HAVE
BEEN
HER
OWN
COMPOSITION
.
I
Sigh
,
and
lament
me
in
vain
,
These
walls
can
but
echo
my
moan
;
Alas
!
it
increases
my
pain
,
To
think
of
the
days
that
are
gone
.
Through
the
grates
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
.
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
cold
at
the
sound
.
Unchang'd
by
the
rigors
of
fate
,
I
burn
with
contempt
for
my
foes
,
Though
fortune
has
clouded
my
state
,
This
hope
shall
enlighten
its
close
.
False
woman
!
in
ages
to
come
Thy
malice
detested
shall
be
;
And
when
we
are
cold
in
the
tomb
,
The
heart
still
shall
sorrow
for
me
.