Specimen Of The Former Translation Of The Lass Of Fair Wone Poem by Charlotte Dacre

HER sire, a harsh and angry man,
With furious voice revil'd,
'Hence from my sight, I'll none of thee--
I harbour not thy child.'

And fast amid her fluttering hair,
With clenched fist he gripes,
And seized a leathern thong, and lash'd
Her side with sounding stripes.

'Poor soul, I'll have thee hous'd and nurs'd;
Thy terrors I lament:
Stay here--we'll have some further talk--
The old one shall repent:

What's fit and fair I'll do for thee,
Shalt yet retain my love--
Shalt wed my huntsman, and we'll then
Our former transports prove.

'Me vengeance waits; my poor, poor child,
Thy wound shall bleed afresh,
When ravens from the gallows tear
Thy mother's mould'ring flesh.'

Hard by the bow'r her gibbet stands;
Her skull is still to show;
It seems to eye the barren grave,
Three spans in length below.