Monaltri

There’s a sound on the hill,
Not of joy but of ailing;
Dark-hair’d women mourn--
Beat their hands, with loud wailing.

They cry out, Ochon!
For the young Monaltri,
Who went to the hill;
But home came not he.

Without snood, without plaid
Katrina’s gone roaming.
O Katrina, my dear!
Homeward be coming.

Och! hear, on the castle
Yon pretty bird singing,
“Snoodless and plaidless,
Her hands she is ringing.”