She's Up and Gone
Thomas Hood
1799 to 1845
Track 1
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And sup the common rill,
She might have stay'd a little yet,
Her drink was rosy wine;
Aye, call her on the barren moor,
Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
My child is flown on wilder wings
Than they have ever spread,
That widen'd when she fled.
She's up and gone, the graceless girl,
But now she'll share the robin's food,
But now 'tis turn'd to tears;—
And I may even walk a waste
And call her on the hill:
So near the brink I stand,
And robb'd my failing years!
Her meat was served on plates of gold,
My shadow falls upon my grave,
And plover's answer shrill;
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will!
But never one like mine;
My blood before was thin and cold
And led me by the hand!
Full many a thankless child has been,
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