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'It's no the sinkin' o' the sun
That gloamins sae the ground,
The heicht it is o' Sillarwood
That shadows a' around.'
'Methocht, Sir Knicht, broad Sillarwood
A pleasant bield wud be,
With nuts on ilka hazel bush,
And birds on ilka tree—
But oh! the dimness o' this wood
Is terrible to me!'
'The trees, ye see, seem wondrous big,
The branches wondrous braid,
Then marvel nae if sad suld be
The path we hae to tread!'
Thick grew the air, thick grew the trees,
Thick hung the leaves around,
And deeper did the Ettin's voice
In the dread dimness sound—
'I think,' said Maiden Mag one,
'hear a horn and hound!'
'Ye weel may hear the hound,' he said,
'Ye weel may hear the horn,
