THE OLD SONG
O, I stole from my window I held her so dear,
And I followed the wave of her garments of green.
My father did rage and my mother did sigh,
“Your way will be hard and your heart it will break,
Your feet will grow weary, your cheek will be pale,
If you go to the mountains for Grannia Wad's sake.”
My years waned in prison, my rough bed was hard,
When I was a freeman my blood it was cold:
I met her, my true-love; I made her my wife:
O, home-weary was I because I grew old!
O, the years flew in passing in peace and in rest,
And I watched my young son as he leaped and he ran,
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