The Moorland Witch
There lives a lass on yonder moor, -
She wears a gown of green;
She’s handsome, young, and sprightly,
With a pair of roguish een:
She’s graceful as the mountain dow
that snuffs the forest air;
And she brings the smell of the heather bell
In the tresses of her hair.
’Twas roaming careless o’er the hills,
As sunlight left the sky,
That first I met this moorland maiden
Bringing home her kye:
Her native grace, her lovely face,
The pride of art outshone; -
I wondered that so sweet a flower
Should blossom thus alone.
Alas, that I should ever meet
Those beaming eyes of blue,
That round about my foolish heart
Their strong enchantment threw.
I could not dream that falsehood liked
In such an angel smile;
I could not fly the fate that lured
With such a lovely wile.
And when she comes into the vale,
To try her beauty’s power,
She’ll leave a spelll on many a heart
That fluttered free before.
But, oh, beware her witching smile, -
’Tis but a fowler’s snare;
She’s fickle as the mountain wind
That frolics with her hair!