Though I have loved you well, I ween, And you, too, fancied me, Your heart hath too divided been A constant heart to be. And like the gay and youthful knight, Who loved and rode away,...
Lay me low, my work is done; I am weary. Lay me low, Where the wild flowers woo the sun, Where the balmy breezes blow, Where the butterfly takes wing, Where the aspens, drooping, grow,...
Rest, and be thankful! On the verge Of the tall cliff rugged and grey, But whose granite base the breakers surge, And shiver their frothy spray, Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreath...
'Now, welcome, welcome, masters mine, Thrice welcome to the noble chase, Nor earthly sport, nor sport divine, Can take such honourable place.' - Ballad of the Wild Huntsman. (Free Translation.)