When many hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away
Sadd'ning to Mora.
Loose flow'd her yellow hair,
Quick heav'd her bosom bare,
As thus to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow:

Loud howls the stormy west,
Cold, cold is winter's blast-
Haste then, O Donald, haste!
Haste to thy Flora!
Twice twelve long months are o'er
Since on a foreign shore
You promised to fight no more,
But meet me in Mora.

'Where now is Donald dear?'
Maids cry with taunting sneer;
'Say is he still sincere
To his lov'd Flora?'
Parents upbraid my moan;
Each heart is turn'd to stone;
Ah Flora! thou'rt now alone,
Friendless in Mora!

Come then, O come away!
Donald, no longer stay!
Where can my rover stray
From his lov'd Flora?
Ah, sure he ne'er could be
False to his vows and me!
O heav'ns! is not yonder he
Bounding o'er Mora!

'Never, O wretched fair,'
Sigh'd the sad messenger,
'Never shall Donald mair
Meet his lov'd Flora!
Cold as yon mountain snow
Donald thy love lies low!
He sent me to soothe thy woe,
Weeping in Mora.

Well fought our valiant slain
On Saratoga's plain;
Thrice fled the hostile train
From British glory.
But ah! though our foes did flee,
Sad was each victory.
Youth, love, and loyalty,
Fell far from Mora!

'Here, take this love-wrought plaid,'
Donald expiring said,
'Give it to yon dear maid
Drooping in Mora.
Tell her, O Allan, tell!
Donald thus bravely fell,
And that in his last farewell
He thought on his Flora.'

Mute stood the trembling fair,
Speechless with wild despair,
Then striking her bosom bare,
Sigh'd out 'poor Flora!
Ah Donald! - ah well-a-day!'
Was all the fond heart could say.
At length the sound died away
Feebly on Mora.