93
Where would I ride,
In all the pride
Of Elfin chivalry,
With each sweet sound
Far floating round,
Of Faerye minstrelsy?—
'Tis o'er her neck of drifted snow,
Her passion-breathing lip,
Her dainty chin and noble brow,
That I would trip.
Were I a glossy plumaged bird,
A small glad voice of song,
Where would my love-lays aye be heard—
Where would I nestle long?—
In Margaret's ear
When none were near,
I'd strain my little throat,
To sing fond lays
In Margaret's praise,
That could not be forgot;
Then on her bosom would I fall,
And from it never part—-
Dizzy with joy, and proud to call
My home her heart!
