An elegy for Catherine Lowther, "Relict of the late Sir William Lowther, of Swillington in Yorkshire." These nine ballad stanzas are signed "Ewan Clark, Standingstone." The deceased was evidently known for her charity: "Nor was it for lucre she fed | The tribes that enwhiten yon green; | The hungry still shar'd of her bread, | To the naked her fleeces were giv'n." I have not identified the poet.
Why sits deep despair on thy brow?
Why stands the round tear in thine eye,
And why, for I hear'd it e'en now,
Heav'd thy bosom that sorrowful sigh?
Is yet then my Damon to know
The source whence my sorrows are fed?
Then hearken — and share in my woe,
Dorinda — Dorinda is dead!—
Ah, me! Is the bounteous no more?
Weep in anguish, ye nymphs and ye swains!
What heart can restrain to deplore
The loss of the pride of our plains?
Last night of her death nought aware,
As close by her folds I return'd,
Harsh blasts from her flocks fill'd the air,
Ah, me! 'twas their mistress they mourn'd!
Full cause had her flocks to bewail
The death of Dorinda the good,
She led them each morn to the vale,
When thirsty, she drove to the flood.
And when the grey ev'ning approach'd,
She lodg'd them secure from their foes,
In the folds (where no prowlers encroach'd,
To lose the long night in repose.
Nor was it for lucre she fed
The tribes that enwhiten yon green;
The hungry still shar'd of her bread,
To the naked her fleeces were giv'n.
A tribute of tears shall be paid,
Shall flow to her praise from each eye,
And sighs from each bosom shall aid,
To waft her pure soul to the sky.
The stone shall stand at her head,
Shall speak this indelible strain,
"Here lies — for Dorinda is dead—
The glory, the pride of the plain."