Thy only child is now no more. 

 Long ere the lark his matin sung, 

 Clad in his hunting garb of green, 

 The brave, the noble, and the young, 

 The Boy of Egremont was seen! 

 Who in his fair form could not trace, 

 The youth was born of high degree; 

 He was the last of Duncan's race, 

 The only hope of Romillé. 

 In his bright eye the youthful fire 

 Was glowing with unwonted brightness; 

 Warm in friendship, fierce in ire, 

 Yet spoke of all its bosom's lightness. 

 His mother marked his brilliant cheek, 

 And blessed him as he onward past; 

 Ah! did no boding feeling speak, 

 To tell that look would be her last. 

 He held the hound in silken band, 

 The merlin perched upon his hand, 

 And frolic, mirth and wayward glee 

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