That never a hall such a galliard did grace!
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!”
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near—
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur!