A peasant bard, with song went forth
Â Â To woo the maid he loved;
He sung, and won the maid,â€”but lo!
Â Â All other hearts he moved.
His warm appeal did fondly steal
Â Â Through bosoms far and near,
And distant hearts confessed the art
Â Â Of him, their minstrel dear.
The planets, in their wondrous course,
Â Â Shall bear his fame along;
The â€œ lingering starâ€ still drops a tear
Â Â To griefâ€™s seraphic song.
The â€œunclouded moonâ€ that shines aboon,
Â Â In pure refulgent light,
From pole to pole shall stir the soul
Â Â On every Lammas night.
The peasantâ€™s brow no more shall lowâ€™r
Â Â Beneath a lordingâ€™s scornâ€”
Their hearts enshrine the noble thoughts
Â Â Of him, the cottage-born.