He tunes his pipe against the wind
With music sweet and wild,
When lo, a fluttering scarlet cape,
The sobbing of a child!
He took her up and held her close;
“I’ll take you home,” he said.
But still the little maid sobbed on,
Nor was she comforted.
“What! Cold and hungry, little maid,
And frightened of the storm?
I’ll play upon my pipe,” said he,
“And that will keep you warm!”
And lo, when first he blew his pipe,
It was a wondrous thing—
The sleet and snow turned all to flowers,
The birds began to sing!
When next he blew upon his pipe,
She marveled more and more;
For, built of gold with strange device,
A palace rose before!
A lovely lady led them in,
And there they sat them down;
The piper wore a purple cloak,
And she a snow-white gown.
And there was song and light and cheer,
Feasting and everything!
Who would have thought that Piping Will
Could be so great a king?
The third time that he blew his pipe
They took her to the queen;
Her hair was yellow as the sun,
And she was clothed in green.
