Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;
    The mother she asked of his household and home;
    “Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,
    My hall,” quoth bold Allen, “shows gallanter still;
    ’Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,
    And with all its bright spangles,” said Allen-a-Dale.

    The father was steel and the mother was stone,
    They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;
    But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry,
    He had laugh’d on the lass with his bonny black eye,
    And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,
    And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.

[83] “Rokeby,” canto third.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.[84]

    Oh, lady! twine no wreath for me,
    Or twine it of the cypress-tree! 
    Too lively glow the lilies’ light,
    The varnish’d holly ’s all too bright,
    The mayflower and the eglantine
    May shade a brow less sad than mine;
    But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
    Or weave it of the cypress-tree!

    Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
    With tendrils of the laughing vine;
    The manly oak, the pensive yew,
    To patriot and to sage be due;
    The myrtle bough bids lovers live
    But that Matilda will not give;
    Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
    Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

    Let merry England proudly rear
    Her blended roses, bought so dear;
    Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
    With heath and harebell dipp’d in dew. 
    On favour’d Erin’s crest be seen
    The flower she loves of emerald green;
    But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
    Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

    Strike the wild harp while maids prepare
    The ivy meet for minstrel’s hair;
    And, while his crown of laurel-leaves,
    With bloody hand the victor weaves,
    Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
    But when you hear the passing-bell,
    Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
    And twine it of the cypress-tree!

    Yes, twine for me the cypress bough;
    But, O Matilda, twine not now! 
    Stay till a few brief months are past
    And I have look’d and loved my last! 
    When villagers my shroud bestrew
    With pansies, rosemary, and rue,—­
    Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
    And weave it of the cypress-tree!

[84] “Rokeby,” canto fifth.

THE CAVALIER.[85]

    While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,
    My true love has mounted his steed and away,
    Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down;—­
    Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!

    He has doff’d the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,
    He has placed the steel cap o’er his long flowing hair,
    From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down—­
    Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!