The sigh of the moor curls their tresses,
As they tread over Alva of roes.
Dusky his dogs came with one,
And he bends his dark-brow of yew;
There’s a stream from the side of the sad-faced maid,
Dyes her robe with a blood-red hue.
Hold thou back, O thou wind! from the mountain,
Let their image a moment stay;
Nor sweep with thy skirts from our eyesight,
Nor scatter their beauty away.