He mused upon this curious case, And swore he'd change the pigtail's place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him.
Says he, "The mystery I've found,-- I'll turn me round,"--he turned him round; But still it hung behind him.
Then round, and round, and out and in, All day the puzzled sage did spin; In vain--it mattered not a pin,-- The pigtail hung behind him.
And right, and left, and round about, And up, and down, and in, and out, He turned; but still the pigtail stout Hung steadily behind him.
And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist, and twirl, and tack, Alas! still faithful to his back The pigtail hangs behind him.
A little girl through field and wood Went plucking flowerets here and there, When suddenly beside her stood A lady wondrous fair!
The lovely lady smiled, and laid A wreath upon the maiden's brow; "Wear it, 'twill blossom soon," she said, "Although 'tis leafless now."
The little maiden older grew And wandered forth of moonlight eves, And sighed and loved as maids will do; When, lo! her wreath bore leaves.
Then was our maid a wife, and hung Upon a joyful bridegroom's bosom; When from the garland's leaves there sprung Fair store of blossom.
And presently a baby fair Upon her gentle breast she reared; When midst the wreath that bound her hair Rich golden fruit appeared.
But when her love lay cold in death, Sunk in the black and silent tomb, All sere and withered was the wreath That wont so bright to bloom.
Yet still the withered wreath she wore; She wore it at her dying hour; When, to the wondrous garland bore Both leaf, and fruit, and flower!
The cold gray hills they bind me around, The darksome valleys lie sleeping below, But the winds as they pass o'er all this ground, Bring me never a sound of woe!
Oh! for all I have suffered and striven, Care has embittered my cup and my feast; But here is the night and the dark blue heaven, And my soul shall be at rest.
O golden legends writ in the skies! I turn towards you with longing soul, And list to the awful harmonies Of the Spheres as on they roll.
My hair is gray and my sight nigh gone; My sword it rusteth upon the wall; Right have I spoken, and right have I done: When shall I rest me once for all?