For this, your boy’s undoing,
If ’mong the feathers I should die
I’ll not regret my wooing.
’Twas midnight; the tables were spread to regale,
Then followed a story, a song and some ale;
The “Oracle” sang of a magical stream
That murmured a strangely mysterious theme;
The shy Letha Lane and the bold Roland Rare
Gave a song and a dance that was passingly fair,