Lord Barnard is to greenwood gone,
Where fair _Gil Morrice_ sits alone,
And careless combs his yellow hair;
Ah! mourn the youth, untimely slain!
The meanest of Lord Barnard's train
The hunter's mangled head must bear.

Or, change these notes of deep despair,
For love's more soothing tender air:
Sing, how, beneath the greenwood tree,
_Brown Adam's_[B] love maintained her truth,
Nor would resign the exiled youth
For any knight the fair could see.

And sing _the Hawk of pinion gray_,[C]
To southern climes who winged his way,
For he could speak as well as fly;
Her brethren how the fair beguiled,
And on her Scottish lover smiled,
As slow she raised her languid eye.

Fair was her cheek's carnation glow,
Like red blood on a wreath of snow;
Like evening's dewy star her eye:
White as the sea-mew's downy breast,
Borne on the surge's foamy crest,
Her graceful bosom heaved the sigh.

In youth's first morn, alert and gay,
Ere rolling years had passed away,