The moon shone down on Ironwood
Above the trees so tall;
And lo! the red and wrinkled leaves
Upon his face did fall.
And lo! the shade of the withered bough
Across his face lay dim,
And the wolf she leapt, and seized, and tore
The warrior limb from limb.
Ho ho for the red of the wrinkled leaf!
His spirit has gone to dwell
With the grimly ghosts of the ancient hosts
That haunt the rocky fell!
Ho ho for the white of the withered bough!
The witch she wails full sore;
And Ironwood, for that deed of blood,
Is accursèd evermore!
BALLAD OF MIDSUMMER EVE
The throstle he roused him at fall of eve
And said to the owlet grey,
“Lo, brother, look through the dusky wood
And tell who comes this way.”
The owlet stirred on the swaying bough
Of the slender birchen-tree:
“And seest thou not the minstrel-wight
A-roaming along the lea?”
“And what of the voice that comes with him,
The voice that sighs and sings?”
“Oh, that’s the sound of the harp he bears
As the wind blows over the strings.”
“And is it for love of a fair young maid
That his cheek is pale and wan?”
“Ay, a maid I wis, but never a kiss
Will she lay on the lips of man.
“He must sit all day at the ale-house door
Amid the talk o’ the town,
With a merry stave for knight and knave
And a jest for the staring clown.