I’d nothing to eat in that dark retreat,
   Save the grass and leaves I devoured;
No bed-fellows crept to the place where I slept,
   But bears that brooned and roared.

So near at hand was the holy tide
   Of our Lady of mercies tender;
The King of the Swedes his followers leads,
   And rides to the Church in splendour.

p. 8So I laid an arrow on my good bow,
   As I looked from the gap so narrow;
And into the heart of the Swedish King
   I sent the yard-long arrow.

Now lies on the ground the Swedish King,
   And the blood from his death-wound showers;
So blythe is my breast, though still I must rest
   Amid the forest bowers.

To kiss a pair of red lips small
   Full many a lover sighs;
If I kiss anything at all,
   Let. . . Read More