Of gentle Sir Gawain they had no sport,
     When it was morning in Arthur’s court;
     What think you they cried? 
     Now, life and eyes! 
     This bride is the very Saint’s dream of a prize,
     Fresh from the skies! 
     See ye not, Courtesy
     Is the true Alchemy,
     Turning to gold all it touches and tries? 
     Like the true knight, so may we
     Make the basest that there be
     Beautiful by Courtesy!

     The three maidens

     There were three maidens met on the highway;
     The sun was down, the night was late: 
     And two sang loud with the birds of May,
     O the nightingale is merry with its mate.

     Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still? 
     The land is dark, the night is late: 
     O, but the heart in my side is ill,
     And the nightingale will languish for its mate.

     Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store;
     The moon mounts up, the night is late: 
     O, I shall look on man no more,
     And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.

     Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing;
     The moon mounts high, the night is late: 
     O my dear lover can hear no thing,
     And the nightingale sings only to its mate.

     They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure;
     The moon is pale, the night is late: 
     His grave is shallow on the moor;
     O the nightingale is dying for its mate.

     His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair;
     The moon is chill, the night is late: 
     But I will lie beside him there: 
     O the nightingale is dying for its mate.

     Over the hills

     The old hound wags his shaggy tail,
     And I know what he would say: 
     It’s over the hills we’ll bound, old hound,
     Over the hills, and away.

     There’s nought for us here save to count the clock,
     And hang the head all day: 
     But over the hills we’ll bound, old hound,
     Over the hills and away.

     Here among men we’re like the deer
     That yonder is our prey: 
     So, over the hills we’ll bound, old hound,
     Over the hills and away.

     The hypocrite is master here,
     But he’s the cock of clay: 
     So, over the hills we’ll bound, old hound,
     Over the hills and away.

     The women, they shall sigh and smile,
     And madden whom they may: 
     It’s over the hills we’ll bound, old hound,
     Over the hills and away.

     Let silly lads in couples run
     To pleasure, a wicked fay: 
     ’Tis ours on the heather to bound, old hound,
     Over the hills and away.

     The torrent glints under the rowan red,
     And shakes the bracken spray: 
     What joy on the heather to bound, old hound,
     Over the hills and away.