Under the greenwood tree.

The engines of her grief, the tools
That shap'd her sorrow, rocks and pools,
And airs that gently stir
The vernal leaves, she loved them still,
Nor ever tax'd them with the ill
Which had been done to her.

[Footnote 8: The Tone is a River of Somersetshire at no great
distance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to
a few Stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places
richly covered with Coppice woods.]

A Barn her _winter_ bed supplies,
But till the warmth of summer skies
And summer days is gone,
(And in this tale we all agree)
She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
And other home hath none.

If she is press'd by want of food
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a road side,
And there she begs at one steep place,
Where up and down with easy pace
The horsemen-travellers ride.

That oaten pipe of hers is mute
Or thrown away, but with a flute