William Drummond of Hawthornden (1585–1649)

MY lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow

With thy green mother in some shady grove,

When immelodious winds but made thee move,

And birds on thee their ramage did bestow.

Sith that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,

Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,

Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,

What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,

But orphans’ waitings to the fainting ear;

Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;

Be therefore silent as in woods before;

Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,

Like widow’d turtle, still her loss complain.