A small green worm that gnaws, For the nightingale that low Each eve doth rave, the passionate slave Of the wild white rose below.
The night-bird wails below; The stars creep out above; And the roses soon in the sultry moon Shall palpitate with love.
The night-bird sobs below; The roses blow and bloom; Thro' the diamond panes the moonlight rains In the dim unholy room.
Ancestors grim that stare Stiff, starched, and haughty down From the oaken wall of the noble hall Put on a sterner frown.
The old, bleak castle clock Booms midnight overhead, And the rose is wan and the bird is gone When walk the shrouded dead.
And grim ancestors gaunt In smiles and tears faint flit; By the mirror there they stand and stare, And weep and sigh to it.
In rare, rich ermine earls With rapiers jeweled rare, With a powdered throng of courtiers long Pass with stiff and stately air.
With diamonds and perfumes In ruff and golden lace, Tall ladies pass by the looking-glass, Each sighing at her face.
An awful mirror this, I like it not at all, In this lonely room where the goblin gloom Scowls from the arrased wall.
She rode o'er hill, she rode o'er plain, She rode by fields of barley, By morning-glories filled with rain, And beechen branches gnarly.
She rode o'er plain, she rode o'er hill, By orchard land and berry; Her face was buoyant as the rill, Her eyes and heart were merry,
A bird sang here, a bird sang there, Then blithely sang together, Sang sudden greetings every where, "Good-morrow!" and "good weather!"
The sunlight's laughing radiance Laughed in her radiant tresses; The bold breeze set her curls a-dance, Made red her lips with kisses.
"Why ride ye here, why ride ye there, Why ride ye here so merry? The sunlight living in your hair, And in your cheek the cherry?
"Why ride ye with your sea-green plumes, Your sea-green silken habit, By balmy bosks of faint perfumes Where squats the cunning rabbit?"
"The morning's feet are wrought of gold, The hunter's horn is jolly; Sir Richard bold was rich and old, Was old and melancholy.
"A wife they'd have me to his bed, And to the kirk they hurried; But now, gramercy! he is dead, Perdie! is dead and buried.
"I ride by tree, I ride by rill, I ride by rye and clover, For by the kirk beyond the hill Awaits a better lover."