Yea, I’ll consent, she reply’d, if you’ll promise,
That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.
No, by heaven, I exclaim’d, may I perish.
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
HAL THE WOODMAN.
Stay, traveller, tarry here tonight.
The rain still beats, the wind is loud,
The moon too has withdrawn her light,
And gone to sleep behind a cloud.
’Tis seven long miles across the moor;
And should you from our cottage stray.
You’ll meet, I fear, no friendly door,
Nor soul to tell the ready way.
Come, dearest Kate, the meal prepare,
This stranger shall partake our best;
A cake and rasher be his fare,
With ale that makes the weary blest.
Approach the hearth, there take a place;
And till the hour of rest draws nigh,
Of Robin Hood, and Chevy Chace,
We’ll sing, then to our pallets hie.
Had I the means, I’d use you well;
