171
And ye, a mother's only prop, Kept from her widow'd heart in blooming youth!In your cold wat'ry bed sinks down her ev'ry hope, And the fair promise of your worth and truth.
Hope, too, had whisper'd in thine ear, Ill-fated Angus! many a rapturous taleOf love and joy to come—now on a wat'ry bier Floats thy disfigur'd form all ghastly pale.
Sinclair, in vain thy bride shall wait The sail that wafts thee o'er the wat'ry plain—In place of love, and joy for thee, ah! hapless fate! A grave beneath the dark and stormy main
Oh! my heart bleeds these babes to see, Smiling unconscious of their father's doom:Long shall the prattlers wait to ken with noisy glee The bark that bears the worthy Cragie home.
Oh, lovely infants! 'tis in vain— Your widow'd mother never more shall viewYour fond and worthy sire e'er reach this shore again; His last———it was indeed, a last adieu!
Nor these alone, ah, me! are mourn'd— What other widows, other orphans weepFor those that parted hence, and never more return'd— Rock'd in the waves to everlasting sleep!
