She mourn'd for her lover, Sir Frovin the brave,
For he had embark'd on the boisterous wave;
And, burning to gather the laurels of war,
Had sail'd with King Humble to Orkney afar:

At feast and at revel, wherever she went,
Her thoughts on his perils and dangers were bent;
No joy has the heart that loves fondly and dear -
No pleasure save when the lov'd object is near!

May Asda walk'd out in the bonny noon-tide,
And roam'd where the beeches grew up in their pride;
She sat herself down on the green sloping hill,
Where liv'd the Erl-people, {4} and where they live still:

Then trembled the turf, as she sat in repose,
And straight from the mountain three maidens arose;
And with them a loom, and upon it a woof,
As white as the snow when it falls on the roof.

Of red shining gold was the fairy-loom made;
They sang and they danc'd, and their swift shuttles play'd;
Their song was of death, and their song was of life,
It sounded like billows in tumult and strife.

They gave her the woof, with a sorrowful look,
And vanish'd like bubbles that burst on the brook;
But deep in the mountain was heard a sweet strain,
As the lady went home to her bower again.