By his side freely dangled, and well could he wind it, a bugle of gold!
Full fondly he kissed her—she thought it no sin,
Though she knew not his name, nor his kith, nor his kin;
They plighted their troth by the fount’s bubbling stream,
Where oft, it is said, when frail mortals but dream,
The fairies hold revel, and trippingly dance in the moon’s mellow beam.
On the Eve of St. Agnes the maiden confessed,
As was proper she should, all her sins to the priest;
When she left him, the blush in her check mantled high;
There was care in her step, and a tear in her eye.