I remember the mossy-rimmed springlet,
That gushed in the shade of the oaks,
And how the white buds of the mistletoe,
Fell down at the woodman's strokes,
On the morning when cruel Sir Spencer
Came down with his haughty train,
To uproot the old kings of the greenwood
That shadowed his golden grain.
For he dwelt in a lordly castle
That towered half-way up the hill,
And we in a poor little cabin
In the shade of the weather-brown mill,
Therefore the haughty Earl Spencer
Came down with his knightly train,
And uprooted our beautiful roof-trees
That shadowed his golden grain.
Ah! wearily sighed our mother,
When the mistletoe boughs lay shed;
But never the curse of the orphan
Was breathed on the rich man's head;
And when again the gentle summer
Had gladdened the earth once more,
No branches of gnarled oaks olden
Made shadows across the floor.
GURTHA.
The lone winds creep with a snakish hiss
Among the dwarfish bushes,
And with deep sighing sadly kiss
The wild brook's border rushes;
The woods are dark, save here and there
The glow-worm shineth faintly,
And o'er the hills one lonely star
That trembles white and saintly.
Ah! well I know this mournful eve
So like an evening olden;
With many a goodly harvest sheaf
The upland fields were golden;
The lily moon in bridal white
Leaned o'er the sea, her lover,
And stars with beauty filled the Night--
The wind sang in the clover.
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