"Lie still, lie still, thou little Musgrave,
And huggell me from the cold;
'Tis nothing but a shephard's boy,
A driving his sheep to the fold.
"Is not thy hawk upon a perch?
Thy steed eats oats and hay,
And thou a fair lady in thine arms,—
And wouldst thou be away?"
With that my lord Barnard came to the door,
And lit a stone upon;