His lands are bleak and drear, O;
Forsook his dales
Forsook his moors of deer, O.
Forsook his heart, ah me! of mirth;
There's nothing gladsome left on earth;
All thoughts and dreams seem vain, O,
Save where remote
The moonbeams gloat,
And sleeps the lovely Jane, O.
Until an even when lone he went,
Gnawing his beard in dreariment —
Lo! from a thicket hidden,
Lovely as flower
In April hour,
Steps forth a form unbidden.
"Get ye now down, my lord, to me!
I'm troubled so I'm like to dee,"
She cries, 'twixt joy and grief, O;
"The hound is dead,
When all is said,
But love is past belief, O.
"Nights, nights I've lain your lands to see,
Forlorn and still — and all for me,
All for a foolish curse, O;
Now here am I