No more on Barden's hills shall swell
The mirth inspiring bugle note;
No more o'er mountain, vale and, dell,
Its well known sounds shall wildly float.
Other sounds shall steal along,
Other music swell the song;
The deep funeral wail of wo,
In solemn cadence, now shall spread
Its strains of sorrow, sad and slow,
In requiem dirges for the dead.

Why has the Lady left her home,
And quitted every earthly care,
And sought, in deep monastic gloom,
The holy balm that centres there?
Oh! ill that Lady's eye could brook
On those deserted scenes to look,
Where she so oft had marked her child,
With all a mother's joy and smiled,
For not a shrub, or tree or flower,
But brought to mind some happy hour,
And called to life some vision fair.
When her young hope stood smiling there.

But he was gone! and what had she
To do with love, or hope, or pride,
For every feeling, warm and free,
Had left her when young Duncan died;
And she had nought on earth beside.
One single throb was lingering yet,