Like nightingales on the orchard tree,
And sorely wish they had wings for flying,
So they might with their true love be;
A knight all worthy, in this sweet season,
Went out to Cardiff with bow and gun,
Not to chase the roebuck, nor shoot the pheasant,
But hunt the fierce fox so wild and dun.
And by his side was a young maid riding,
With laughing blue eyes and sunny hair;
And who was it but young Dora Vernon,