ALICE BRAND I MERRY it is in the good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing, When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry, And the hunter's horn is ringing. 'O Alice Brand, my native land And we must hold by wood and wold, 'O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright, 'Now must I teach to hew the beech, 'And for vest of pall, thy fingers small, A cloak must shear from the slaughter'd deer, -'O Richard! if my brother died, 'Twas but a fatal chance: For darkling was the battle tried, 'If pall and vair no more I wear, Nor thou the crimson sheen, As warm, we'll say, is the russet gray; As gay the forest-green. 'And, Richard, if our lot be hard, 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, Up spoke the moody Elfin King, Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church, 'Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, Or who comes here to chase the deer, Or who may dare on wold to wear 'Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie, For thou wert christen'd man: For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, For mutter'd word or ban. Lay on him the curse of the wither'd 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 still'd their singing; The evening blaze doth Alice raise, And Richard is fagots bringing. Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf, And as he cross'd and bless'd himself, But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, 'And if there's blood upon his hand, "Tis but the blood of deer.' -Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! It cleaves unto his hand, The stain of thine own kindly blood, The blood of Ethert Brand.' Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand, 'And if there's blood on Richard's hand, 'And I conjure thee, Demon elf, IV 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Fairy-land, When fairy birds are singing, When the court doth ride by their monarch's side, With bit and bridle ringing : 'And gaily shines the Fairy-land But all is glistening show, Like the idle gleam that December's beam Can dart on ice and snow. 'And fading, like that varied gleam, Who now like knight and lady seem, 'It was between the night and day, 'But wist I of a woman bold, I might regain my mortal mould, |