Song of One Eleven Years in Prison

George Canning (1770–1827)

WHENE’ER with haggard eyes I view

This dungeon that I ’m rotting in,

I think of those companions true

Who studied with me at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.

[Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds:]

Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue,

Which once my love sat knotting in—

Alas, Matilda then was true!

At least I thought so at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.

[At the repetition of this line he clanks his chains in cadence.]

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew,

Her neat post-wagon trotting in!

Ye bore Matilda from my view;

Forlorn I languished at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.

This faded form! this pallid hue!

This blood my veins is clotting in!

My years are many—they were few

When first I entered at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion grew,

Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen!

Thou wert the daughter of my tu-

tor, law-professor at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu,

That kings and priests are plotting in;

Here doomed to starve on water gru-

el, never shall I see the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.

[During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison, and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.]

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