How often she has gazed from castle windows all,
And watched the daylight
passing within her captive wall
With no one to heed her call.
The evening hour is fading within the dwindling sun,
And in a lonely moment, those embers will be gone,
And the last of all the young birds flown.
Her days of precious freedom, forfeited long before
To live such fruitless years
behind a guarded door
But those days will last no more.
Tomorrow at this hour she will be far away
Much farther than these islands,
for the lonely Fotheringay.