Энн Хантер (Anne Hunter)

Текст оригинала на английском языке

The Song of the Wandering Lady


THROUGH dreary wilds forlorn I go
When loud the storms of winter blow;
On me they waste their rage in vain,
For I can feel nor joy nor pain.
My sheep, companions kind and true,
Yes, I can feel a pang for you;
Come gather round, and I will keep
The watch, and sing while you shall sleep.
Ah, these were once my lover's care,
Of all the flock he held them dear;
With me they left their native fold,
And brav'd the winds of winter cold.

They follow wheresoe'er I lead,
And while I sit and see them feed,
Methinks the sunny days return
Ere yet my heart had learnt to mourn.
To mourn a father's cruel pride,
By whose rash hand my lover died;
O cruel, cruel was the deed,
That caus'd so kind a heart to bleed.
O youth belov'd, thy voice no more
Can peace to my sad soul restore;
To seek thy native hills I fly,
Where thou wert born I go to die!

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