"And, Richard, if our lot be hard,
And lost thy native land,
Still Alice has her own Richàrd,
And he his Alice Brand."
II.
'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,
So blithe Lady Alice is singing;
On the beech's pride and oak's brown side,
Lord Richard's ax is ringing.
Up spoke the moody Elfin King,
Who wonn'd within the hill,—
Like wind in the porch of a ruined church,
His voice was ghostly shrill.
"Why sounds yon stroke on beach and oak,
Our moonlight circle's screen?
Or who comes here to chase the deer,
Beloved of our Elfin Queen?
Or who may dare on wold to wear
The fairies' fatal green?
"Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,
For thou wert christened man:
For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,
For muttered word or ban.
"Lay on him the curse of the withered heart,
The curse of the sleepless eye;
Till he wish and pray that his life would part,
Nor yet find leave to die!"
III.
'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,
Though the birds have stilled their singing;
The evening blaze doth Alice raise,
And Richard is fagots bringing.
Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,
Before Lord Richard stands,
And as he crossed and blessed himself,
"I fear not sign," quoth the grisly elf,
"That is made with bloody hands."