This is no my plaid (1850s)/The warning moan

The Warning Moan.

A maiden fair lay dying,
within her palace hall,
and round her couch was sighing,
her bright attendants all,
Her lately coroneted brow
feels many a rending throe.
And the hectic spot is spreading now,
o'er her wan cheek of woe:

'Tis night fond ones bend o'er her,
with kind affection s fears;
As though they could restore her
by their anguish and their tears ;
No hope their hearts need borrow,
for the watchdog's doleful cries,
Tell be painful tale of sorrow.
ere morning s light she dies.

She gazes round her wildly.
when that sad sound is heard.
Then greets her lov d ones mildy,
with a parting soul’s regard :
But ere the morning‘s sun has shone
that fair one breathes no more.
And the faithful watchdog's waring moan
is also hush’d and o er.