O woman! bloody, bloody was thy deed;
The blackness of thy crime exceeds belief;
The story makes each heart but thine to bleed,
And fills both men and maids with keenest grief!
Behold thy daughter, beauteous as the sky,
When early morn transcends yon eastern hills,
She lov'd the youth who by thy guile did die,
And now our ears with lamentations fills:
'Tis she, who sad, and grov'ling on the ground,
Weeps o'er his grave, and makes the woods resound.