The Lady’s Lament

Miss Flaxman

Oh luckless maid! Oh cruel fate
 Would I might run away
And shun ere it may be too late
A subtle, dark, mysterious mate
 Not made of mortal clay.

Some call him Monarch of the Mine
 Who claims this plighted hand
That every thing superb and fine
For which many ladies pine
 Are all at his command

But what to me are rubies rare,
 Or sparkling diamond comb
Or topaz crescent for my hair
When not a soul will ere be there
 But that detested gnome!

For never any well drest belle
 To ask could I presume
No lower to my humid cell
Just like a bucket in a well
 And spoil her gay costume!

Oh! if the thief some sylph had been
 Tho’ ne’er so gay and light
And proffer’d me to his Queen
His golden wings, his sportive mien
 Had won his heart outright!