“We have moved them all,” was the men’s reply,
As Harris gazed at the moonlit sky;
“We have moved them all; but what, your honor,
Shall we do, to-night, with our fair Madonna?
Shall we leave her alone in the glen to abide?
Will she make for Sir Wolf a fitting bride?
Or, will she tell tales when they come to look?
For I’ll risk a woman to find our nook.”
“Peace!” thundered Harris, “and no more fun;
Ye are seven in number, in purpose one.”