When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,
And the hunter’s horn is ringing.
“O Alice Brand, my native land
Is lost for love of you;
And we must hold by wood and wold,
As outlaws wont to do.
“O Alice, ’t was all for thy locks so bright,
And ’t was all for thine eyes so blue,
That on the night of our luckless flight,
Thy brother bold I slew.