I. THE lark is singing her matin lay, Oh come with me, fair maiden, I pray; Sweet, oh sweet is the morning hour, And sweeter still is yon ivied bower; Wreaths of roses I'll twine for thee, Oh come, fair maiden, along with me! Ah! Sir Hunter, my mother is near; I really must n't be loitering here. II. Thy mother, fair maiden, is far away, And never will listen a word we say. I'll sing thee a song that ladies sing In royal castles to please the king; A wondrous song, whose magical charm Will keep the singer from every harm. Fie! Sir Hunter, a fig for your song, Good by! for I must be going along. III. Ah! well, if singing will not prevail, I'll tell thee, then, a terrible tale; 'T is all about a Baron so bold, Huge and swart, and ugly and old, Who saw the ghost of his murdered wife, -- A pleasant story, upon my life! Ah! Sir Hunter, the story is flat; I know one worth a dozen of that. IV. I'll teach thee, then, a curious prayer Of wondrous power the wolf to scare, And frighten the witch that hovers nigh To blight the young with her evil eye. O guard, fair maiden, thy beauty well, A fearful thing is her wicked spell! Oh, I can read my missal, you know. Good by, Sir Hunter, for I must go. V. Nay, tarry a moment, my charming girl: Here is a jewel of gold and pearl; A beautiful cross it is, I ween, As ever on beauty's breast was seen. There's nothing at all but love to pay; Take it, and wear it, but only stay! Ah! Sir Hunter, what excellent taste! I'm not -- in such -- particular -- haste! |