“My plan is this: Forget this fray

About that lily hand of hers;

Go take your guns and hunt all day

High up yon lofty hill of firs,

And while you hunt, my loving doves,

Why, I will learn which one she loves.”

The brothers sat the windy hill,

Their hair shone yellow, like spun gold,

Their rifles crossed their laps, but still

They sat and sighed and shook with cold.