Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn,
The hunter is winding blythe sounds on his horn,
The echo rings merry from rock and from tree,
'Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie.
Wamba.
O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet,
Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit;
For what are the joys that in waking we prove,
Compared with these visions, O Tybalt, my love?
Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill,
Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on the hill,
Softer sounds, softer pleasures in slumber I prove,—
But think not I dream'd of thee, Tybalt, my love.
"A dainty song," said Wamba, when they had finished their carol; "and I swear by my bauble, a pretty moral—I used to sing it with Gurth, once my play-fellow, and now, by the grace of God and his master, no less than a free man; and we once came by the cudgel for being so entranced by the melody, that we lay in bed two hours after sun-rise, singing the ditty betwixt sleeping and waking—my bones ache at thinking of the tune ever since. Nevertheless,
