The Return Home, 19

All hail to thee, thou stately
Mysterious town, all hail,
Who erst within thy bosom
My loved one’s form didst veil!

O say, ye towers and gateways,
O where can my loved one be?
To your keeping of yore was she trusted,
And ye must her bail be to me.

The towers, in truth, are guiltless,
From their places they could not come down,
When she, with her trunks and boxes,
So hastily went from the town.

The gates, however, they suffer’d
My darling to slip through them straight;
A gate is ever found willing
To let a fool “gang her ain gait.”