With his sword in its scabbard, he came!
In the glamour of amorous passion
He would blaze like a seasoned cigar;
And he fought in a similar fashion,
Did Young Lochinvar!
By the fences and fens unaffrighted,
And unstopt by the stream in its spate,
In a lather, at last, he alighted,
And he knocked at the Netherbys’ gate.
’Twas too late! (As he doubtless had dreaded.)