And that as a maid she’d tarry, till she found a chance to marry
With one true to William, her bold king, and Mary, her good queen.
Then Sir Walter’s brow would darken, and he’d mutter, “Alice, hearken!
By my child no such treason shall be spoken e’en in jest;
And bethink you, oh, my daughter! there is one across the water
Who shall one day have his own again, though now he’s sore distressed.”
Little knew he that each even, ’twixt the hours of six and seven,
Just below his daughter’s casement a whistle low was blown;
And that soon as e’er it sounded through the wicket-gate she bounded,
And was clasped in the embrace of one of bold “King William’s Own.”