“Lady of Lorn! the morning bids thee wake, Her purple beams gild Lammerlaw’s high steep; The lark is springing from the dewy brake, Rousing the minstrels of the air to keep Their woodland concert. ’Tis not meet to sleep While on the battlements thy baby fair Forth from his vagrant nurse has dared to creep To sip alone the balmy-breathing air; Lady of Lorn, awake! or waken in despair!”