Her eye with wrath and pity flows:
He gazes fierce and round, O--
"Dear Lord!" he says,
"What loveliness
To waste upon a hound, O.

"I'd give my stags, my hills and dales,
My stormcocks and my nightingales
To have undone this deed, O;
For deep beneath
My heart is death
Which for her love doth bleed, O."

He wanders up, he wanders down,
On foot, a-horse, by night and noon:
His lands are bleak and drear, O;
Forsook his dales
Of nightingales,
Forsook his moors of deer, O,

Forsook his heart, ah me! of mirth;
There's nothing gladsome left on earth;
All thoughts and dreams seem vain, O,
Save where remote
The moonbeams gloat,
And sleeps the lovely Jane, O.

Until an even when lone he went,
Gnawing his beard in dreariment--
Lo! from a thicket hidden,