HE IS GONE ON THE MOUNTAIN.[81]

    He is gone on the mountain,
      He is lost to the forest,
    Like a summer-dried fountain,
      When our need was the sorest. 
    The font re-appearing,
      From the rain-drops shall borrow;
    But to us comes no cheering,
      To Duncan no morrow!

    The hand of the reaper
      Takes the ears that are hoary,
    But the voice of the weeper
      Wails manhood in glory. 
    The autumn winds rushing
      Wafts the leaves that are searest,
    But our flower was in flushing
      When blighting was nearest.

    Fleet foot on the corrie,
      Sage counsel in cumber,
    Red hand in the foray,
      How sound is thy slumber! 
    Like the dew on the mountain,
      Like the foam on the river,
    Like the bubble on the fountain,
      Thou art gone, and for ever.

[81] “The Lady of the Lake,” canto third.

A WEARY LOT IS THINE, FAIR MAID.[82]

    “A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
      A weary lot is thine! 
    To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
      And press the rue for wine! 
    A lightsome eye, a soldier’s mien,
      A feather of the blue,
    A doublet of the Lincoln green,
      No more of me ye knew, my love! 
      No more of me ye knew.

    “This morn is merry June, I trow,
      The rose is budding fain;
    But she shall bloom in winter snow,
      Ere we two meet again.” 
    He turn’d his charger as he spake,
      Upon the river shore,
    He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
      Said, “Adieu for evermore, my love! 
      And adieu for evermore.”

[82] “Rokeby,” canto third.

ALLEN-A-DALE.[83]

    Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning,
    Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,
    Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,
    Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning;
    Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale! 
    And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.

    The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
    And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,
    The mere for his net, and the land for his game,
    The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;
    Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the vale
    Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale.

    Allen-a-Dale was ne’er belted a knight,
    Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;
    Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,
    Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;
    And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,
    Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.